


step into the spotlight

by phantomphaeton



Series: house on bird street [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Actors, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Celebrities, F/M, Married Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Models, oh my!, rich and famous, see what i did there?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 34,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22334101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomphaeton/pseuds/phantomphaeton
Summary: The world implodes (maybe he's being a little dramatic, but he's made a career out of drama so he thinks it's earned him a pass) when world-famous actor Jon Snow checks his phone one random afternoon to find a secret he'd hoped to keep hidden splashed all over the internet."Jon," Sam tells him in that way that always sounds too close to pitying. "I hate to be the one to tell you this, but your wedding pictures have broken Twitter."Jon's got a secret. All bets are off.Jon's shit at secrets. Bet he's got a problem.Jon's secret is out. Bet the house (on bird street).
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: house on bird street [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1607626
Comments: 213
Kudos: 891





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back. I began writing this waaaaaay back when, and had a little input from the sparkling Janina. Here it is, a fic that is neither angsty nor totally depressing! Hope you like the magazine cover, I made it myself (picks imaginary speck of lint off my shoulder). If you're coming in from tumblr, hope you like the photoset, also made it myself (picks imaginary speck of lint off my other shoulder). I don't know dick about shit about Lannisport, the place I have chosen to double as the Westerosi equivalent of Los Angeles. I just chose it because it's a western city on golden shores, and I made up basically everything else about it so suspend disbelief if I'm not geographically accurate. I finally get to play around with a Jon Snow who isn't a raging moron, and I am over the moon about that. 
> 
> Disclaimer: quotes from the summary came from Entourage, which was (surprisingly) not the inspiration behind this fic, but has helped me actually understand the process (or lack thereof) of how actors actually get anything done. Also GOT obvi ain't mine. As you probs noticed, this work is part of a new collection I'm starting called house on bird street, which I guess also needs a disclaimer because the title was inspired by one of my favorite literary works of all time, House on Mango Street. I'm making a collection because I like the idea of chronicling Jon and Sansa's lives as a celebrity couple, but I don't do more than one fic at a time to avoid discontinuing one or the other or, god forbid, both.  
> I talk too much. Enjoy the ride.  
> (See what I did there? GodDAMN, I'm annoying.)  
> 

By Alys Marbrand

Nestled in the concrete folds of downtown White Harbor, a small and inconspicuous coffee shop is where I find my quarry. With his charcoal curls and Brooding IntensityTM, Jon Snow is instantly recognizable any day of the week—excepting today, where he’s decided to hide his famous dark curls beneath a baseball cap and obscured his eyes behind a pair of aviators.

“I’m trying to keep a low profile today,” he explains as he flags down a waiter and orders us coffee. “No one knows I‘m in town yet.”

It’s not often that Snow gets the chance to explore the North in obscurity. Plucked from his small neighborhood on the edges of Wintertown at the ripe age of 14 to star in a coming-of-age indie you might have heard of (on account of the fact that it took the box office by storm) called _Night’s Watch_ , Snow’s career has done nothing in the sixteen years since his acting debut but rise, rise and rise meteorically. It wasn’t difficult to predict a bright future for fourteen year old Snow, as the medieval thriller about a group of celibate military recruits taking on an ice zombie army went on to pick up six Academy Award nominations—including a Best Supporting Actor nod for Snow—and an endless stream of accolades for the now legendary actor. A little over a decade and a half later, with three more nominations and countless other trophies on the shelf, Jon Snow is awfully far removed from the starry eyed young man just starting off secondary school in northern Wintertown.

But not today. Today, in his unassuming sweatshirt and baseball cap, he is not the household name many know him to be. He seems to like it better that way.

“Acting, to me, was always just a job,” he tells me as he mixes cinnamon into his coffee. “It’s a job I love doing really well, but still a job. So the line between professional and personal in this career being as blurry as it is has always been something that I never really got my head around. It took a long while for me to just get used to it.”

Indeed, the topic of these ‘blurred lines’ has been a popular subject of debate over the last few months since the surface of paparazzi photographs snapped from _inside_ the Oldtown home of supermodel Margaery Tyrell—whose famous legs are on display in the covershot—on the internet led to international outrage and widespread discussion. Long term advocators for increased legal penalties on progressively aggressive paparazzi have found new ground in their battle for privacy—advocators like Jon Snow, who has had, in the course of his sixteen years in the spotlight, endured paparazzi harassment as he made the move to Lannisport to establish himself as a professional actor, and has subsequently found himself splashed on every major news outlet as he dabbled in a string of _extremely_ high profile relationships with some of Lannisport’s leading ladies.

“It was really frustrating at first to deal with them in any situation,” Snow says, gulping down his visibly steaming coffee. “But as time passes, you get used to dealing with them in situations that you’d expect to see cameras. Airports, the street, restaurants…that’s all become easier to deal with. The scary thing is when you get something like what happened with Margaery—like, what’s a pap doing in your house? How much is a picture worth? Was it worth the shattered ribs her security guard gave the guy? I seriously doubt it.”

Suddenly vividly recalling the rumors of Snow’s intense training, I’m compelled to ask what his own reaction to such an intrusion would be. Would violence be the first response?

“If the pap can make it unscathed past my dog,” Snow jokes about his menacing wolf hybrid. “They’re welcome to the photo. They’re obviously made of more than any mere mortal human. I’ll even model for them. No—the training was something I started taking on for a role I did a few years ago, and—surprise, surprise—I loved it.”

The role Snow is referring to is, of course, _House of Blossoms,_ the story of a young Andal man taken as a slave and sold into the eponymous Lysene pleasure house. The role was an iconic one for Snow—bringing him his second Oscar nomination at age eighteen, earning him his first Golden Globe and Screen Actors Guild awards, and—to the excitement of many—the first on screen sex/nudity of Snow’s career.

“I feel like it’s a hazing ritual or a rite of passage,” Snow says with a nervous laugh. “Nudity is easy—it’s an inevitability, almost. It’s no big deal. But gods—sex scenes are just another thing entirely. Every actor should have to experience the unique agony of filming a sex scene.” In Snow’s case, that agony might have become normalized. When I point this out, Snow laughs so hard he nearly cries. “It has, hasn’t it?” he asks. “I think there’s very little I’ve left to the imagination with all the scenes I’ve shot.”

This leads us right into his most recent film, highly anticipated upcoming epic _Sins of the House of Dragons_ , a shockingly scandalous (and, as the Museum of Dragonstone has attested, highly accurate) portrayal of key members of the formerly royal family during a critical juncture in Westerosi history. Taking on the role of the legendary Aegon the Conqueror, Snow’s film shuns its predecessors’ focus on the political and military side of the Conquest, and focuses instead on the breeding ground for instability and insanity being fostered by the figures behind the three headed dragon. The logo, no longer a symbol of the royal family since their abdication in 1742—now represents the iconic Targaryen Pictures lot in Lannisport—the only film lot to boast a bird street address.

The film—already hailed as a predicted success with high box office expectations—might be taken as something of a homecoming for Snow. After an incendiary _Vale Chronicle_ article exposed Snow as the son of Lannisport silver screen legend Rhaegar Targaryen and former international runway model Lyanna Snow, then twenty four year old Snow found himself in the position of having nearly every excellent accolade reconsidered as critics who had once lauded praises upon his every performance suddenly found themselves asking whether or not the awards and the fame were the result of good old-fashioned nepotism.

“My dad knew how I felt about people knowing we were related,” Snow says. “I’m not ashamed of being his son. He understands that. He also understands that the name that I was born with carries a huge shadow. And I never thought it would be so insane for a person to want to be able to achieve something of their own without that association. To just know if they were truly capable, or if someone was holding doors open for them.”

Snow’s connection to the film dynasty is one he has handled with balance in the years since the revelation, a practice also adopted by his fiercely protective father. In the years since, Snow has acquired two more Oscar nominations and has played major roles in films that have accumulated a combined total of at least four billion dollars worldwide.

“It sounds so scary when you say it like that,” he says when I voice some of this aloud. “It was scary, to be fair, when it all happened. But when you’re going through it all one bit at a time, one fight at a time, one round at a time, it’s not something you think about that way. You’re not thinking—how’s this gonna look when I’m talking to a journalist one day? It’s never been like that. It’s always been more like, okay this is an obstacle. You’re looking at it. Now you’ve gotta figure out how to get past it. Are you gonna jump? Are you gonna go around? Do you have to fight your way through it? You can’t stop the punches. You’ll be stuck in one place forever if you try. You have to roll with them. That’s what I’ve tried to do. It’s what I’ve always been trying to do.”

A punishingly chilly breeze picks up outside, admitted into the shop when a customer holds the door open for his companion for too long. Snow and I get to our feet, preparing to leave. As he pulls on his sweatshirt, a young couple behind us seems to recognize him. It takes a grand total of thirteen seconds before the entire shop is aware of who is in here. Jon gives me a smile and shrug, and I understand. It’s just another punch to roll with.

**....................***************....................**

Sansa’s eyes gloss over the magazine in Arya’s hands as she pads barefoot across the tiled floor to the fridge. Arya does an excellent job of totally ignoring her from her seat at the breakfast bar. In fact, she’s doing an excellent job of ignoring pretty much everything—even her honey nut cheerios in front of her.

“Those are getting soggy,” Sansa points out as she pours herself a glass of orange juice.

“Hm,” is Arya’s mindless reply. Sansa swallows a gulp of juice and picks up her phone, scrolling through the wall of texts from Jeyne Poole to see what she missed after she left the girls early at Butter last night.

“Jesus,” Sansa mutters. “I think Beth might’ve gotten a stomach pump last night.”

“Yeah.”

“Jeyne ended up face-to-asphalt maybe an hour after I left. I am never going to Butter again. They probably lined the martini glasses with crystal meth. I’ve never seen Beth this drunk.”

“Yep.”

Sansa lowers her phone. “I’m shaving my head.”

“Okay.”

“Gendry joined a sex club.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s got chlamydia now.”

“Right.”

Sansa lowers her glass and phone to the countertop, staring at Arya. It takes a whole minute for Arya to react. Without taking her eyes off of the open pages of _Crownlands Cabaret_ , she lowers the magazine only slightly. “Have you read the piece on Jon here?”

“I can’t imagine why else it’d be in the house. What do you think?”

“Look at this—‘ _brooding_ _intensity’_. It’s an awfully sweet way of saying he looks like someone asked him to deepthroat a cactus.”

Sansa smiles as she takes another sip of her juice. It’s always nice to have Arya staying over. Her little sister prefers White Harbor—spending chunks of every year at Robb's townhouse there—but seems to have made herself quite comfortable regardless of this. More importantly, Sansa just feels safer with Arya here. With Jon away filming his explorer drama in Sothoryos, company besides the housekeeper Nan is much appreciated. Nan leaves around eight or nine each night, and Sansa isn’t too keen on staying alone in this new house—it’s too large and far too empty.

“How on earth did they get him to talk this much? I didn’t even know he knew this many words.”

“He’s an actor,” Sansa says with a shrug.

“Who wrote this? Alys Marbrand? Didn’t she try to fuck him once?”

Sansa shrugs. “I forget. Now I have for you a bigger question: what are we going to do today? Because I was thinking maybe we should head to the grocery store and pick up some sprinkles and chocolate chips. I could go for a really thick cookie right now.”

Arya finally sets the magazine aside. “I imagined cheat days for you meant a spoon of almond butter and two and a half strawberries.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Three strawberries, actually. And I’ll have you know my ass is two sizes smaller these days.”

“I noticed. Your pants almost fell off yesterday at Hot Pie’s. Speaking of, why bake when we could just buy cookies from his place?”

“Because it’s a twenty minute drive and I’m lazy.”

“Then order delivery.”

“Hot Pie delivers?”

“You bet your two-sizes-smaller ass he’ll deliver to me,” Arya says, and she’s already got her phone in her hand as she dials with purpose. She holds the phone to her ear. “Hot Pie? Hi, it’s me. Who else? Are you telling me there's a girl out there who actually wants to date you? I'm sure you have a sparkling personality. I’m calling to place an order. No. I know you don't deliver. I want to order. Yes. Of course I’m serious. I’ll pay for the delivery. I know you have one useless pair of hands you can spare to drop this off. It’s a huge order.” Arya quickly lowers the phone to her shoulder. “We might need to make a big order.”

Sansa shrugs, pulling the magazine closer and looking through the glossy photos. She’s already seen her fill of them, having been mailed the copy that _Crownlands Cabaret_ sent to Jon. It’s not likely that Jon has seen them yet. She hardly knows what he’s seen—he’s on location in one of the most notorious dead zones on the planet. Sansa’s half horrified that he could be eaten by some jungle cat and she won’t know about it until next week.

They’ve spoken intermittently in the month since he left to begin principal shooting. Jon has never been the sort of lush to need a Skype conversation every single day, and being perfectly honest, Sansa finds that both relieving and worrying. On the one hand, her first boyfriend was a golden haired psychopath who might have insisted on knowing her bowel movements if he could get his hands on such information. Sansa recalls, with a shudder, how that relationship had come to an abrupt end when Arya had happened to overhear a conversation over Thanksgiving weekend when Joffrey had quietly but stonily berated Sansa in the hallway for going to the bathroom without telling him first—leaving him alone with her family for a devastating total of three and a half minutes. While that dinner had ended with am impromptu trip to the emergency room, Sansa had time to reflect on the sort of men she wanted to get tangled up with. No, Jon doesn’t need a check in or a report, and Sansa is grateful that she has a chance to _breathe_.

On the other hand, is it strange that a couple that’s only been married for about three months should be so…okay with the distance? She distinctly remembers the early days of Robb's first serious relationship with that whimsical twat Jeyne Westerling. He could barely go an hour without giggling at his phone. It made Sansa equal parts aggravated and curious. Now it just makes her wonder. Would it be annoying to Jon for her to talk to him every day? She didn't do it while they were dating, brief as that period was. She's never been with anything this out there before. Is there like...a protocall or something?

Well, she supposes there’s nothing interesting to tell him. He’s in Sothoryos, for god’s sake. He’s filming an adventurous, romantic drama in one of the most naturally beautiful places on earth and he’s got better things to do than listen to his wife talking about how Arya is harassing Hot Pie into delivering cookies for them to gorge on while they binge-watch three straight seasons of _Unsullied_ on Netflix.

 _Fascinating_.

Sansa flips to another page of the magazine. She can’t recall where the pictures were shot—Jon had mentioned it in passing a few weeks ago—but she remembers that it is a sleek mansion belonging to one of his work friends. She hadn’t been there on set for the photoshoot—only getting a text from Margaery when the shoot started, and another one after it ended. Putting Margaery in the shoot had actually been Sansa’s suggestion. The photographer, a flirty, smoldering man named Daario Naharis, had a knack for excellent photographs and—as Arya had so eloquently put it within five minutes of meeting the man—an all consuming need to ‘stick his attar-perfumed dick in Jon’s pouty mouth’. She had suggested Margaery purely in jest.

“If Daario tries to sexually assault Jon, you can be his knight in strappy Jimmy Choos and stab him with your stilettos,” she had joked to Margaery at the time.

Sansa only got to looking at the magazine last night, and only read the article accompanying it this morning. Jon’s no stranger to covers, she knows. It’s the first one he’s done, however, since their wedding just last October. He might be interested in knowing how it turned out. Has he seen it already? She looks at Arya, who is now screeching into her phone, and reasons that she is going to be busy for a while. Sansa picks up her own phone and dials Jon’s number.

“Hey, it’s me. Leave a message.”

“Hey, Jon, it’s me. I just thought you might want to know that _Cabaret_ came in yesterday. It looks really good. The interview is pretty sound, too, though Arya’s pulling up conspiracy theories about your vocabulary. Um…I suppose I just wanted to check in on you. Wondering how things are going in Sothoryos. How’s filming? I miss you. Love you. Bye.”

She hangs up and feels…sort of stupid. This isn’t a fucking stranger she’s still feeling around in the dark to know. This is fucking _Jon_. Jon, who buys her flowers on random days of the week just because. Jon, who likes to sit underneath the backyard canopy and watch the rainstorms while sipping chocolate laced coffee. Jon, who is surprisingly addicted to cuddling. Jon, who she once watched empty a vacuum bag into a wire wastebasket.

Sansa looks down at the magazine again and bites her lip. It’s easier to say that it’s just Jon when he’s standing right next to her. When he’s in his favorite black t-shirt and jeans instead of a designer suit (even though he looks oh-so-delectable in them). When he’s rumbling around in the kitchen sneaking a bit of whatever she’s making, or holding her in the night as they bathe in the afterglow. That’s the Jon it’s easy to tell that Arya bullied her friend into delivering dozens of cookies to the house so they could gorge themselves while binge-watching a show about eunuch slave soldiers. That Jon would wonder whether Arya’s bullying was successful, and what kind of cookies they got, and they better have saved him some, and what episode they were on, because they couldn’t pass him because Arya could never shut her fucking mouth and would surely spoil the season finale for him. _That’s_ Jon.

“Alright,” Arya says. “He’s agreed. Three dozen cranberry chocolate chip, two dozen white chocolate caramel pecan, and another two dozen chocolate oatmeal.”

“We cannot eat our way through seven dozen cookies,” Sansa says flatly.

“We won’t,” Arya says, ignoring her phone as it buzzes again. “We’ll save some for Jon. Once he gets back from that death camp, he’ll be dying for some cookies.”

“He’s not staying in a death camp,” Sansa says.

“No? I thought he was going method for this thing,” Arya says, glaring at her phone as it buzzes again.

“No, I’m pretty sure he’s staying in a hotel,” Sansa says, gulping down the rest of her orange juice.

"I'm almost jealous, but he's probably peeling his pasty skin off right now." Arya ignores her phone, but it buzzes again. "The locals must think he showers in heroin."

“Will you just pick it up? You probably forgot to give Hot Pie the address.”

Arya turns the phone over and touches the screen. Her eyebrows knit together as Sansa turns around to put her glass into the sink. “I gave it to him. He likely didn’t copy it down.”

“Just send him the location. Where’s Ghost?”

“I let him out in the yard,” Arya says, typing furiously on the phone.

Sansa has only just put the carton of orange juice into the fridge when she hears Arya squeak. Which is quite a fucking thing, because Arya—for all that she is a positively _adorable_ five foot one lump of big eyes and tiny limbs—is not a person that has, in her nineteen years on earth, made the impression that such a sound was ever likely to come from her mouth. Sansa instantly buckles in laughter, wishing to God that some small act of destiny might tempt Arya to make the sound again so she can record it and use it to end world hunger. She pulls her phone out and begins to film. Robb would be likely to forgive her for not catching it on film, but Theon would never. Normally, that wouldn't bother her, but if his soul-searching tour of the Free Cities (read: sex tour) goes as Sansa believes it will, then it's likely he's going to return to Westeros at the end of the spring with a baby on the way, and she's got her eyes (and first dibs) on the title of godmother. 

“What the fuck?” Arya whispers instead, and Sansa promises herself she’ll delete that part of the video later.

“Did you just hear the sound you made?” Sansa asks. “I mean—did you really hear it?” She giggles softly, pressing her palm over her mouth in a half-hearted attempt to stifle the sound. She’s seen plenty of videos where she’s giggled behind the camera before—and has spent each of those times cowering behind a cushion as her snorts and chortles played out.

Arya’s brows knit tighter as her thumb drags up and down the screen until they are one dark line across her forehead. “What the fuck?” she says again, except this time it’s a tad louder. Sansa’s smile falters slightly, and she lowers the phone.

“What is it?” she asks. “Is something wrong? Is it Gendry?”

“No, it’s…” Arya trails off as her mind reoccupies itself with the contents of her phone. The corner of her mouth turns down into a distinct frown as her eyes dart over the screen rapidly, taking everything in. Sansa gives up and goes around the marble counter to the space beside Arya’s seat, resting her chin on her shoulder. If it’s private, Sansa reasons, Arya will shrug her off.

Arya does not shrug her off. Instead, she taps the top of the screen with her thumb, and the page scrolls all the way up to the top. Sansa feels an odd, warm disconnect as it takes a few moments for the headline of the page Arya’s been reading to sink in.

“Gendry just sent me this link,” Arya says, holding the phone out to Sansa.

Sansa cranes her neck closer in a calm, cushy sense of denial. She knows that picture. It’s one of her favorite photos. There’s a charming 12x16 version of it hanging in the hallway. She knows. She bought the silver frame for it from Pier1 and hung it a little while after they moved in.

“Put it in the study instead,” Jon had suggested. “So whichever one of us is in there can see it while we’re working.”

“You’re only in there when you’re reading scripts,” Sansa had said. “Besides—when we have company, I want them to see me at my prettiest.”

“This has to be a joke,” Arya says quickly.

Sansa just stares at the screen.

“How did they get their hands on these pictures? You put up a social media ban!” Arya goes on.

Sansa makes herself comfortable on the stool beside Arya. “These aren’t selfies or camera phone pictures,” she says. “These are the professional ones.”

“That bitch signed an NDA!” 

Sansa reaches across the counter and pulls her phone closer. She switches off the recording and dashes straight to Google. She will not lie—she has, since Jon became a staple in her life, periodically searched her own name. It hasn’t a damn thing to do with vanity—quite the opposite, as she and Jon had agreed that their wedding would absolutely _not_ be public knowledge. Which makes it awfully interesting for her to be looking at a digital copy of their wedding photo on Arya’s phone. Sansa’s eyes catch the headline again.

**_HERE’S EVERYTHING WE KNOW ABOUT SANSA STARK, AKA MRS. JON SNOW_ **

_Oh._

_fuck_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I'll be able to post this daily like I've gotten everyone used to, but I had this second chapter here so I figured I should put that up to provide more detail for this story. Heads up, though: I'm not planning on making a habit of posting more than once a day.

It’s the brightest time of the day—solar fucking noon—and it is so swelteringly hot that their director Alliser Thorne has elected to allow a cooling break lest key grip pass out from heatstroke. Jon is seated in the air-conditioned trailer, waving away something he certainly hopes is a fly but is more likely to be a mosquito. It’s hot and sticky, he’s got his hair side-parted and brushed meticulously, and he wants nothing more than an iced whiskey and a long ass nap.

The film is looking to be more trouble than it’s worth to make, which sucks a little honestly, because the script is flawless. A classical feature film hearkening back to the golden age of Lannisport, Jon is playing a bright young actor in 1952 who arrives to film a caper in exotic, glamorous Sothoryos and gets swept up in a romance with a surly local woman who may or may not be involved in an underground drug ring. It’s a brilliant script, and anyone who’s seen it know this. As it is, it is a script that would be accepted by an actor who usually isn’t him. It had been chosen from the dependably mountainous stack of scripts that are brought to his house every week by his agent Davos Seaworth’s assistant, a perpetually confused boy named Tommen who only seemed to get the job because his family has ties to the city council. Sansa had been the one to select it from the piles upon piles of what Davos’s sharp eye had always been able to sniff out as ‘Oscar gold in the making’.

“It’s a lot more romantic than what you usually take,” Davos said when he came by the house later. “I just threw it in so there’d be variety.”

“Sansa likes it,” Jon had replied.

“Did she choose it for you?” Davos asked.

“Sort of. She said I might need to get a little variety since all my movies are usually angsty. Her words. Not mine.”

Davos chuckled. “I’ve been telling you that for years, and you’re saying all I had to do to get you to film a romance was marry you? I should have thought of it sooner.”

Jon smiled. “A quick blow job might have done it, too.”

They were seated out on the lounge chairs by the pool. The sprinklers were sputtering several feet behind them. Ghost was splashing contentedly about as Sansa kicked her bare feet around in the water. She was seated on the far end of the pool—too far away to hear their conversation—glowing in a dark green swimsuit with a glass of pink lemonade in her hand. It had only been a month since their wedding, six weeks since they moved into this house on Davos’s recommendation.

Lannisport boasts several exclusive addresses within its city limits, but the most important ones, everyone noted, tended to be the ones named after birds: Crane Street, where the landmark Targaryen Pictures backlot was built while the industry was still rising; Warbler Street, which gets the highest police activity because early twenties morons make a single hit song or movie and go spend their money on booze, babes, and hard partying before they cap off the night with a mug shot; Cardinal Avenue, home to the ostentatious, outrageously opulent mega-mansions that can only be truly _needed_ by reality stars seeking to make a statement, and four or five others, among them Blue Jay Boulevard.

Jon selected Blue Jay Boulevard for many reasons—its close proximity to the highway that would take him downtown, the low population of fame leechers, the dog-friendly amenities—but the chief motivation was Blue Jay Boulevard’s reputation as the most private street address in Lannisport. All of the bird streets are exclusive in this regard, but even the most reclusive hermit can agree, there is something _special_ about the security measures within this particular area. The gated community, the former Essosi soldiers acting as some hilarious spin on a Neighborhood Watch, the fact that it’s a city-regulated no-fly zone—for the one who is picky about privacy, Blue Jay Boulevard is the place to be.

Jon and Sansa’s home at 6402 Blue Jay Boulevard was a sweet place when they first bought it. High fence, white walls, _plenty_ of room for a rose garden—as far as he could tell there wasn’t much that needed to be done with it. He’s lived in Lannisport for years, mainly in one opulent apartment after another—and had intended to move Sansa into his condo before the wedding. It was his management team—fronted by his publicist Melisandre Redfly—who talked him out of that one.

“I know Sansa Stark’s type of girl,” she had said confidently as they sipped decaf lattes at Coffee Bean. “Your condo is gonna turn her off faster than Tormund Giantsbane at Playboy Mansion.”

“Tormund was actually a hit at Playboy Mansion,” Jon pointed out.

Melisandre fixed him with a look that made plain her disagreement. “You think she’ll be on board with living in your Theon-Greyjoy-approved bachelor pad? The fact that Theon helped you pick it out only reinforces my point—she does _not_ want to live there. Trust me on this.”

Jon had been ready to laugh it off, but when he asked his manager Sam about it, he seemed to agree with Melisandre.

“Sansa’s a lovely girl,” Sam said the same way he says everything—sincerely. “And your apartment is perfect—for a single football star. Who probably sleeps with escorts and falls asleep on pillows stuffed with cocaine. Think about it—moving in is a big step in a relationship. Are you gonna ask her to start the next chapter of your lives together in that place?”

“But she loves my place,” Jon says. “She says so all the time.”

Gilly had laughed then as she pulled a tray of muffins from the oven. It hadn’t been a discreet, pass-it-off-as-a-sneeze laugh, either—she had straightened up from the oven, red mitts clutching the tray, tilted her head back, and cackled to the ceiling. For some reason it made Jon feel incredibly stupid.

“She loves it, I’m sure,” Gilly said sweetly as she placed a muffin in front of Jon. “She does _not_ want to live in it.”

Her son started wailing for her in the other room, and she laughed her way out of the kitchen to see to him. Jon stared down at his muffin, and when he bit into it, it tasted an awful lot like sympathy.

With two women now firmly in the ‘don’t-put-Sansa-in-your-fuckboy-mancave’ corner, Jon decided he’d be better off getting his information firsthand. He had asked Sansa to move in with him during one of her frequent trips to Lannisport from her home in White Harbor. She had recently begun working from home, something that had brought Jon no small amount of excitement as it meant they could finally say goodbye to the days of long-distance, and he had been meaning to ask her to move in with him as soon as she was free to live wherever she chose.

They had gone to their favorite bakery, a sleek place called MLK, where Sansa got a slice of blue velvet cake. She had just been nibbling at the frosting when Jon got the words out.

“I’d like it if you moved in with me. Do you think we could do that?”

Sansa’s cheeks had gone pink. “You want to move in?” she asked, eyes bluer than the cake as she looked down at her lap.

Jon reached out to catch her hand. He’d been made keenly aware of her dismal romantic history by her brother, his old schoolmate Robb. It had been his way of making sure Jon didn’t, as Robb elegantly put it, ‘royally fuck her over’. That and a threat to sodomize him with the wrong end of a javelin. No, though Jon hadn’t known the truly horrific details until Sansa told him _some_ of them herself, Jon knew enough, by that point, to know that Sansa had spent too much of her precious time being handled by monsters.

“Yes,” he assured her with a gentle smile, squeezing her hand hearteningly. “Yes, I want you to move in with me.”

She gave him a soft smile—the one that makes him think of blooming Lysene roses—and he had been overjoyed for all of three days before the subject came up again and he realized that Gilly’s cackle would soon echo in his ears—this time in triumph.

“Your apartment is _lovely_ ,” Sansa had said as they walked along the pier. Jon pulled his hat lower on his head to hide his trademark curls. So far, they had gone undetected by passersby. “Really. It’s a great place. It’s just—”

“You don’t like it?” Jon finished.

“I didn’t say that,” Sansa insisted. “I just…I think that moving in together is a big deal. And we’re…we’re starting off a part of our lives that’s new to the both of us. I mean—it’s new for me. I’ve never lived with a partner before. I mean—I know you lived with partners before, right?”

“I did.”

“Well…” Sansa bit her lip as she looked out at the water. She tells him things now, and he loves it, but even then he wondered when she’d ever _truly_ feel safe enough to tell him everything. “I think that your apartment is a part of _this_ chapter. And for us to start a new chapter, we need a place that’s new to both of us.”

Eager to begin what had been called ‘the new chapter’ of his life, Jon threw himself headfirst into searching for a new place. He browsed listings during breaks on set, he discreetly toured apartments in his downtime, he called up all of his old realty contacts and got them all busy. It had been an exciting summer for Jon. He had never particularly thought one way or another about any aspect of domestic life, but being with Sansa was a revelation. All of those things he’d always written off as boring suddenly made his stomach twist into excited knots. He made note of the places that he especially liked touring, set up appointments to come and see them again with Sansa on her next trip from White Harbor. And Sansa only fed the flames of his excitement when she’d send him links to places she’d been looking at.

It was after the third listing arrived, however, that Jon noticed a distinct difference in the sort of places they were looking at. Jon had his eyes set on his usual edgy, minimalistic two-story condo. Rooftop pools, in-building gym, pet friendly, valet parking, almost always located downtown. These are the sorts of places he’d been living in since he was legally old enough to move out of his family’s compound on the outskirts of the city. His dad hadn’t been keen on having Jon so far away from the house, but to Jon, an eighteen year old still caught in the haze of celebrity, living downtown had been the embodiment of every single possible happiness. The style he went for grew less ostentatious and more refined as he progressed through his twenties and grew increasingly tired of the wild nightlife that bustling downtown had to offer. He never left city living behind, however—he had grown too used to it.

It was surprising, therefore, to see that Sansa was sending him listings of houses. A few of them had flower gardens planted outside. All were in neighborhoods that one could easily google to see as quiet areas. All were far removed from what he had come to know—and Jon had learned _quite_ a bit about apartment real estate in Lannisport.

“You’ve made some decent money off of apartment life,” Sam said when Jon mentioned it over lunch at the Golden Crown one afternoon. The script for some new project titled _Sins of the House of Dragons_ was sitting on the table beside them for Jon to take home and _maybe_ look over. “But you can make a killing off of houses. How d’you think Pyp managed to make all of that money? He flips houses.”

“I’m not talking about making money off real estate,” Jon said. “I’m talking about buying an actual house. Sansa is looking at houses. Not apartments. And _definitely_ not downtown.”

“Well, you can always find some happy medium,” Sam said, lifting his chopsticks to his lips to take in a bite of sushi. “You know the houses on Oriole Way aren’t a far cry from the sort of place you’re living in now. Desi was up there a week ago at an open house. The place he toured had a bowling alley. Does Sansa like bowling?”

Jon just blinked at him. “She likes bowling,” Jon said.

Sam sighed, pointing his chopsticks at Jon. “She sent you listings, didn’t she? So just look at what she likes, and look at what you like, see what you can compromise on, and voila! You have your filtered search results! A _happy medium_.”

If pressed for a reason why he wanted to stay in apartments, Jon couldn’t actually provide one. And the more he thought about sharing a home with Sansa, the less he liked the idea of living somewhere that a child of twenty might like. It hit him like a brick in the face while he was walking past Loraq Jewelers on North Broadstreet Gold one day. His eyes landed on a bright diamond ring behind a display window, and he froze in his tracks.

He wanted it all, he realized then. He wanted the picket fence, the flower garden, the warm home with a fireplace. He wanted a living room he could fit a massive Christmas tree into. He wanted no neighbors above or below. He wanted no reception to walk past to get to his space. He wanted a backyard for Ghost. He wanted those things then just as much as he’d wanted them when he’d subconsciously started making room in his apartment for Sansa. He wanted it all, and he wanted it with _her_.

He cancelled all of his upcoming apartment tours. Later that week, he made an appointment with Ilyrio Mopatis and purchased a custom ring, and then let it sit in his closet for the next three weeks until Sansa’s next visit.

Once the ring was on her finger, they were a little more open about what it was they each needed in a home. And it also became increasingly more difficult to simply postpone the ‘how do we come out’ conversation. Their relationship was more or less a total secret. After the trauma of having to share all of his past relationships with the rest of the hungry world, Jon wanted something he could keep to himself. Sansa was _his_ , some glorious part of his life that was untouched by everything else. Something he didn’t have to share. He had seen young men just like himself shrivel under the burning hot spotlight of the industry. How could he protect her from that?

A bird street house seemed sensible when Davos first suggested it to him. The one they chose, however, had been all Sansa. Jon had done his research on the security rumors surrounding Blue Jay Boulevard. The more he learned, the more he liked it. Drone bans over the area. Security guards who once shattered a paparazzi’s legs for trying to get into the neighborhood to photograph actress/musician Missandei Flye on her morning jog (he liked it better when he learned that the pap got neither his photo nor the million dollars he sued for). Blue Jay Boulevard was built to accommodate people who didn’t want to be disturbed. It was the perfect place to keep a blossoming marriage hidden. They signed off the paperwork, collected the deed, changed all of the locks, and settled into the house on bird street with only a fortnight to spare until their wedding.

Since their wedding, he’s had to leave town on multiple occasions—interviews, TV spots, one promotional tour abroad—and Sansa has, as far as he can tell, been coping admirably. She continues her home-based work, she explores the city, and she frequently invites her sister to stay with her so she won’t be alone in the house. Jon will never confess to this, but he has—in the days since their engagement began—taken up the habit of googling her name. There’s no logic behind it besides to reassure himself every time he gets no real results that they are still in the clear for now. They are still safe. They agreed when they began planning the wedding—and Melisandre had made it plain to Jon from the moment she learned they wanted to keep the wedding a secret—that there was no way in hell they’d be able to keep Jon’s status as a married man hidden from the world forever.

“It’s just impossible,” Melisandre had said flatly. “Eventually, someone is going to slip. The wedding, you can hide. People hide weddings all the time. But eventually, someone is going to say something. And then when they find out that you’re married, they’re going to want to find out who she is. Every single thing about you that could even remotely give her away is going to be put under a microscope. She won’t be able to go with you _anywhere_. All it’ll take is one lucky bastard with a smartphone, and she’ll be all over the tabloids. And then, if we’re not ready, they’ll _eat her alive_.”

It had been settled between them all—them all being Jon, Sansa, and Melisandre—that they would have a full year to themselves from the date of the wedding before they slowly released information to the press. Controlling the flow of information, Melisandre informed them, was how they kept Sansa safe. Jon has never been with a woman outside of the industry before. It had never dawned on him before Sansa just how fucking _weird_ it is, this life he lives. And by weird, he means _terrifying._ Because he _is_ terrified. He has _never_ been more terrified for a partner than he is for Sansa. He wishes he could will time to go slowly—has it really been three months already? He’s already got fucking _bodyguards_ lined up for the day where she won’t be able to step outside of their house on bird street without being recognized. He’s got Melisandre on point, ready to beat back rumors and preparing interviewers for the gentle coaxing of the subject. He’s got a million apology gift ideas in his head for when Sansa (inevitably) gets trolled online or harassed by photographers on the street. He’s got _tons_ of sunscreen for when the spotlight shines on her so she won’t feel the burn. And still, he doesn’t know if there will ever be enough time, if there will ever be enough sunscreen to fully prepare her for it all.

His phone beeps as Alliser calls for the end of the break. He pulls it out and reads it as Julie dashes toward him to fix his makeup. He’s supposed to be bleeding from the brow because of a punch that his love interest’s father gave him after a tense conversation, except it’s hot as balls and he keeps sweating it out. He won’t have the chance to check his phone again, even between takes, because Alliser is a giant dick—probably _much_ bigger than the one he’s actually got, Jon would wager—and he seems to really get off on making Jon suffer. He unlocks his phone quickly while he still has the time.

There’s a single message from Sansa, and about two hundred missed calls and texts. He clicks the first text, a link to some article about—

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Fuck. Shit. Fuck. _Fuck_. **_Fuck_**.


	3. Chapter 3

**_HERE’S EVERYTHING WE KNOW ABOUT SANSA STARK, AKA MRS. JON SNOW_ **

Since this information is like, breaking news, we’ll totally forgive you for not knowing it. If it isn’t international within two hours, then you’re clear. But just in case you missed the initial explosion, here’s the scoop: Jon fucking Snow is fucking married. Yeah. That happened.

The whole affair came to light around 4:00 a.m. local Western Time when an anonymous Twitter user uploaded a fucking _explosion_ of what are plainly wedding photos. Read: there are wedding pictures of Jon Snow on the fucking internet. We’ll pause while you Google them. We obviously didn’t have time to upload them all, but we’ve got a few right here, and they. Are. Glorious.

We know what some of you may be thinking. _Holy shitshakes, when did this guy even find the time?_ Well, jokes on all of us, because Jon Snow’s #unplugged lifestyle means what all of our loser peers and maybe our moms have been telling us since time immemorial: it actually pays not to not be on social media all the time (but like, not _that_ much). It’s what helped our favorite curly-haired, pouted regulation hottie slip an _entire fucking relationship_ right under our noses.

We assume you’re in a state of denial right now. It’s okay. We were too. And it’s easy to come up with the most obvious excuse: _these pics can’t be a real wedding because they look like a fucking Pinterest promo! No one can have a wedding that perfect! It must be an ad!_

Well, egg’s on your face—anyone who’s seen _House of Blossoms_ knows from the slope of his ass that Jon Snow is a man who regularly likes to achieve the impossibly ~~firm~~ perfect.

Yeah, there he is—our boy, JSnow, looking dapper as ever (who shot these pictures? Give them a fucking _medal_ ). It’s hard to say exactly where the wedding happened, but the whole atmosphere seems to _ooze_ the Lysene coast. That, or some alternate plane of existence where everyone looks like they model couture for a living.

Now onto the question we know you’re all asking: who the hell is that girl in white meeting him at the end of the aisle? Well, through ~~Twitter~~ our expert sleuthing skills, we’ve learned her name is Sansa Stark. And here’s everything we know about her:

 **She’s employed** :

Some of you may be regular readers of Smoke & Mirrors, the babe bible based in White Harbor that taught girls how to wear clear high heels without getting tipped on the street. Well, the new Mrs. is listed as a junior journalist there. Like all of the staff writers, she writes under a penname that has the word ‘bitch’ written in it somewhere because it’s easier to own that shit so it falls flat if someone screams it at them on the street. If you’re a regular reader at the site, then odds are you’ve read one of her pieces. Jon Snow’s new Mrs writes under the moniker Bitch No. 5, and is listed officially as a 'sociopolitical correspondent', which is just fancy talk for 'she interprets politics and breaks it down for dumb girls who don't understand how Norvos leaving the Free Cities Union impacts their ability to purchase cashmere'—at least that's what we picked up when we got down to reading her articles. So just in case you _are_ confused about Norvos' exit, or just, like, really dumb, she's your smarter friend who also happens to speak 'stupid'. What I’m getting at is that it kinda explains how he was able to keep it quiet for so long—after a decade of watching homeboy date his way through the Fashion Week model roster and be linked to basically every actress he’s ever costarred with _ever_ , no one would really suspect that he’d settle down with someone so far removed from the entertainment industry.

**She’s got friends in high places:**

So like, this is kind of an exaggeration because we only know of the _one_ friend in a high place. We’re talking about the girl who probably stars ~~in your boyfriend's secret fantasies~~ on your insta feed, standing with the other bridesmaid. Yep, you’re eyes ain’t playing tricks on you. That’s Margaery Tyrell, otherwise known as the melting pot of flawless genetics who smiles like she knows ~~your browser history~~ when the world is going to end. Now we know that Jon Snow isn’t exactly a stranger to models (classy way of saying he’s fucked more of them than anorexia) and his recent cover of _Cabaret_ , which hit newsstands yesterday, features her famous stems. Could she have introduced them? Hard to say.

**She’s a ghost:**

Okay. So maybe that line’s a little dramatic. But we’ve been doing our research, and there’s no insta account for a girl named Sansa Stark. Same goes for Twitter, Facebook, Digg, and yes—we checked fucking Pinterest. Ghost story? You decide.

Perfume ad? We think the fuck _not_. 


	4. Chapter 4

Not that she expects anyone to care, but Melisandre was actually in the middle of her afternoon cross fit when she got the frantic phonecall from fucking _Sothoryos_ of all places. To say Jon was panicked does no justice to the absolute mania that seems to have found a home in his bones as he howls like an utter lunatic.

Melisandre has a long, lengthy career of making people look better than they actually do. It's a surface job, and it pays like hell, and she fucking loves it. But she only gets to say she's good at it if she's on top of everything as it happens. So when her laptop, phone, and email all go off at the same time informing her that Jon is trending, she's proud to say that the photos have only been circulating for a good ten minutes before she is aware of them. By the time Jon has gotten a hold of the news all the way in Sothoryos and contacted her two hours later, she's soothing away the anticipated stress of the coming week in cross-fit with her headset attached to her ear, hissing into the mouthpiece.

"You said no one had them!"

"I thought no one had them," Melisandre insists as she moves this conversation outside to the sidewalk. "I was certain no one did."

"Someone has them, Mel!" Jon practically shrieks. If she didn't have a crisis on her hands she might have laughed. "They're all over the Internet! There's already a dozen articles!"

Melisandre lowers the phone from her ear while Jon continues his panicked rampage, minimizing the call long enough to send a quick text to his assistant Olly to hand him an Advil and a sparkling water with citrus and cucumber. When she raises the phone to her ear again, the other line is quiet.

"All better?" She asks cautiously.

"No!"

"At ease, Jon," Melisandre says. "I'm already working on damage control."

"What if someone tries to get to her?"

"Have you called her?"

"Not yet. I saw the article and called you first. Should I call the guards? I'm going to call the guards."

"Do you know where she is?"

"She might be at home. Let me text her," Jon hangs up, and Melisandre rolls her eyes.

Global superstar drowning in awards and nominations.

Highest paid actor of the decade.

CITIZEN's Sexiest Man Alive five times.

Doesn't know how to text while holding a call.

Her phone vibrates in her hand again ten seconds later. Jon's brooding stare (she used his covershot from Treasure magazine, what a fucking _look_ ) is lighting up her screen.

"Yes?"

"She didn't pick up," Jon almost squeaks. "And I texted her but she didn't text back. What if she's outside? What if they're chasing her down the street? What if she's gone blind from cameras?"

"You know as well as I do that no one goes blind from flashing lights. And even if they could, she's not at risk because no one will be using their flash at literally eleven in the morning."

Jon is silent for a moment. "Eleven in the morning? Is that the exact time over there?"

Melisandre lowers the phone for a moment to glance at the screen. "No. Exact time is 10:42. But basically eleven."

"She's still at home then."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive," Jon says, and to his credit, he does sound like he's pulled it together somewhat. "She wouldn't leave the neighborhood without taking Ghost on his morning walk, and she usually does that about now."

"Thank the seven for that," Melisandre says. It'll be easier to do damage control if no one's running around like a loose cannon waiting to be assaulted by the press. "I'll head over to your house right now. Just drink your sparkling and take the Advil and focus on your work, alright?"

"I...What? How did you know Olly just handed me that?"

"Bye, Jon," Melisandre says before ending the call. She tosses her gym bag into the backseat of her cherry red convertible and makes a beeline for Blue Jay Boulevard.

Apparently it had been Davos' bright idea for Jon to relocate his internet-breaking ass to a bird street address, and perhaps this is a stroke of genius that she might possibly wish she could take credit for, because a house on bird street is about as Lannisport lush as one can get. Melisandre drives along Starry Boulevard, a massive two way lane lined with towering palm trees, and turns onto the highway that will take her out of downtown Lannisport and into Golden Hills.

She is not going to lie, when Jon first told her he wanted to keep his marriage secret, the stress she knew she would one day have to face made her shit her pants a little (only a little). She's had clients keep relationships secret. Mya Stone bowed out of modelling for a whole fucking year so she could not only get married, but have a fucking baby, and no one was any wiser until she announced it via Instagram eight months ago. Missandei Flye vanished off the radar for three months to have her boho-chic beachside wedding on the shores of Naath, managing to hide her relationship with her broody bodyguard for an entire year.

But the danger with keeping secrets, Melisandre has found, is the constant, lingering threat of their exposure.

Honestly, she gets where Jon's coming from. She's got no shortage of clients who have all dabbled in dating outside the industry. Some of them have made it work. Some of them have crashed and burned. The sad truth is that when they crash and burn, it's never for the reasons that a relationship ought to crash and burn. It isn’t because of infidelity, or distance, or miscommunication—even though the sheer prospect of dating a celebrity means there’s no shortage of risk for all three. It's always, _always_ , because the lights are too bright.

She didn't tell Jon this, but she does wonder if this girl of his can make it. She hopes that she can.

The house Jon now calls home is a classic old Westerlands revival home—a timeless style in this part of the world. Melisandre was there when Jon first signed the paperwork. She hasn't been to the house since then, but she heard on the grapevine that Sansa has made some renovations.

Lord fuck, that's an understatement.

There's a cherry blossom tree that provides some welcome shade to her leather seats as she steps out of the car. The door is hanging open, and a young woman sits on the step sipping what looks like a chocolate milkshake.

"Morning," Melisandre says. She recognizes her. "Your Sansa's sister, aren't you?"

"Arya," is the swift reply. "Are you damage control?"

"That would be me."

"So what's the verdict? Is she gonna get lynched?"

Melisandre raises an eyebrow. "Not if I have anything to say about it."

Arya nods, then gestures with her thumb to the open door. "She's in the kitchen."

Melisandre nods and smiles at the girl, stepping around her. The girl gives her the impression of a small, observant little monkey. It unsettles her as much as it amuses her.

The interior is, in a word, well handled. Melisandre will be damned if she doesn't recognize the classy, rich-without-being-an-asshole touches of Alerie Hightower flexing her Interior Decorator of the Year muscles. Melisandre’s mind is already whirring, planning for a spread in Architectural Digest. Sansa would look chic-as-fuck in a wine red Bottega gown seated on that staircase. One with a high slit—better showcase her legs since she’s got quite a pair.

One battle at a time.

Sansa is seated at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, spooning lemon yogurt into her mouth as she stares intently at the screen of an open laptop. She notices Melisandre almost instantly, sitting up straighter and giving her a smile. She has a breathtaking smile. In truth, she has a breathtaking everything. It made Melisandre absolutely fucking ecstatic when she first met her. Sansa Stark has all of the trappings of a supermodel—legs for days, the perfect strut, well-kept figure and a winning smile. She could milk quite a career out of the press she's about to get if she's careful. But before they even get that far, Sansa needs to survive the glare of the spotlight. To handle that, she doesn't need a flawless figure or a winning smile. She needs a thick skin and a stomach for the indignity that comes with having the entire world dissecting her every movement. If she is even remotely lacking in either, then there is not a single doubt that she will crash and burn.

Melisandre has come armed to the teeth with her iPad, her Blackberry, a mouth full of curses, and a no-whip decaf soy caramel macchiato. She is fucking _ready_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Jonsa you are waiting for was put off intentionally, and is coming very soon. I just wanted to lay out the introductory groundwork for this verse for the sake of clarity.

Daenerys Targaryen does not exist before high noon. This rule of conduct is only observed in Lannisport because to say that Dragonstone gets more than three or four weeks of sunlight a year is being really, really generous. Dany wouldn’t mind the lack of sunlight, except she’s got a pearly sheen to her hair she’s been nurturing these last three years and she has been looking nothing less than iridescent, which you can’t do in a place that has seen more outbreaks of smallpox than sunsets.

Her phone is on the floor, which is kind of uncool since she just upgraded it a week ago, but there’s no damage done. It must have vibrated off of the nightstand. She wouldn’t know. She sleeps with earplugs and a blindfold that could double as an air mattress.

She’s been looking forward to today, with it being the debut of her perfume ad. She hasn’t been doing much in front of a camera for five years now since she took her leave from acting to focus on her talent agency, but what better way to make her comeback than _Sins of the House of Dragons_? It’s practically fate. Add her surly nephew Jon to the mix and there’s no way her comeback to the silver screen won’t hit gold. She had been anticipating the incoming movie scripts as soon as filming wrapped up last year, and was only mildly disappointed to find the majority of the pile to be rom coms. Taking on the role of brand ambassador for Lorath Jeweler’s debut perfume came with tons of perks—the attention it’d give her would do wonders for that stack of stupid scripts sitting in her untouched study. She prepares for her day with a little more pep in her step than usual, eager to see her family and accept their hearty congratulations.

As a general rule, every Targaryen who is in Lannisport comes around the compound for brunch on Wednesday mornings. As it is, there are only three Targaryens in the city at this moment: herself, Rhaegar, and Aegon. She has her own condo downtown, but she elected to stay on the compound where her kin would have better access to her this week so that they can better offer her their congratulations. See? She’s being so accommodating.

Viserys is still in Tyrosh, stupid tit that he is, probably sinking his entire inheritance on that ridiculous modelling agency he’s been trying to keep afloat since he founded it nine years ago. Rhaegar’s offered to help him out with it a gazillion times—the Seven know Rhaegar’s got a good eye for this sort of thing—but of course that would never do for their brother, who once stuck his finger into a pot of molten gold out of spite. While she must admit that the moniker ‘goldfinger’ might sound cool on James Bond, it loses its charm when it’s attached to her gangly, manorexic, possibly-heroin addicted brother. 

When she enters the kitchen, she pours out three bowls of gourmet chow for her precious perfect baby Rottweiller-Shepherd hybrids Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion. They come dashing into view at her whistle, tucking gleefully into their lunches. She’s never awake to feed them breakfast, so she has one of the terrified maids take care of that.

The brunch spread is already being laid out by the impeccable service staff. Poached eggs, cheesy toast, vegan pancakes, fruit salad, four different fruit juices, sausages, biscuits, granola and honey spread all across the surface of the ultra polished oak table imported piece by piece from the forests of the Wolfswood.

She can see through the glass doors that her nephew Aegon is asleep on his stomach, buck naked, on a floating shit emoji on the tile by the pool. Balloons whose helium has long died out float serenely across the water, and glitter is fucking everywhere. She purses her lips, pushing the sliding door open and padding out in her silky pajamas and fuzzy slippers. She lifts one foot and rocks it against Aegon’s side.

“Egg, you are not the Jon Snow you think you are. No one wants to see your ass.”

Aegon has no response, even as she gives him another shake. For a moment, she toys with the possibility that he might be dead. Which would suck, because she cannot receive congratulations on her perfume ad from a corpse. What’s more, she wouldn’t even know how to explain that to Rhaegar. Which is stupid, because it’s not as if he asked her to babysit his kids. They’re not even fucking kids anymore. Jon is fucking married. Rhaenys lives in White Harbor while she boosts her cred as a social media influencer—which, considering just how big the fashion district in White Harbor is, is actually pretty effing smart—and works on her makeup line. Aegon is usually a really talented artist when he isn’t, y’know, dead.

“Are you alive?” she asks, nudging him with her foot again. “I swear, I will stick the end of that parasol into your asshole to check.”

She won’t. Not if you _paid_ her. But she’s kinda freaking out, and kinda pissed off, because, like—it’s her big effing day. She’s got a perfume ad dropping, and the premiere of _Sins of the House of Dragons_ is in three weeks, and she’s making a fucking comeback to the silver screen, and it’s a big fucking deal for her, but it’s literally solar noon and she hasn’t gotten a single congratulations. So she might end up shafting her nephew just for shits and giggles. He’s not even her _favorite_ nephew, so she won’t even lose sleep over it.

“If you die, I’m keeping the Porsche,” she says, giving his side a hard push with her foot. She really puts her strength into this one, and it’s an achievement because she’s got little legs. Egg flips over, and she squeals, turning away from the sight of his dick jostling with the movement. “Fucking gross! Egg, what’s the matter with you?!”

Egg draws in a breath, which is a good sign because he’s definitely alive so she doesn’t have to have any awkward conversations with Rhaegar. “S’bright,” he grumbles, wincing as he lays his arm over his face.

“It’s literally twelve noon,” she says irately as she hunts down a towel and flings it over his waist like a blanket. “Did you snort rat poison? I thought you were dead.”

“Shush.”

“Excuse me? I have barely been awake for twenty minutes and already this feels like the worst day of my fucking life. My perfume ad dropped an hour ago on YouTube, you know, and not a single person has congratulated me! It’s like I have no friends at all!”

“Maybe that’s because you talk so loud,” Aegon hisses at her, rolling over. “Maybe they texted you.”

“Why would they text me the congratulations? You’re supposed to _call_ people with things like that!”

“Who do you think you are? The Queen on the Iron Throne? No one gives a fuck about your perfume ad—it smells like fucking pinecones and Juicy Fruit. Just accept the text congratulations and sod off.”

Dany gives him another kick. “This is why Jon is my favorite nephew!”

“Good. Go assault him for a change.”

Daenerys huffs and storms back into the house, snagging an apple from the fruit bowl on the countertop and heading back upstairs. Her phone is still charging on the nightstand where she left it. She scrolls through the log to see who’s remembered this special day.

_D! Saw the ad! You look so f’ing gorg! Let’s meet up today! –Missandei_

_Saw the ad. Good shots. Might have to marry you. –Tyrion_

_Lovely work. I’m coming by later today so I can congratulate you in person. You worked so hard. –Jorah_

She supposes not all text congratulations are completely horrible, though significantly underwhelming. At the very least Jorah can be counted on to consistently show appropriate enthusiasm for her work, unlike the ‘totally not suitable for relationships’ guy she’s been fucking on the sly for the last six weeks. Truth be told, Daario Naharis’s status as a bona fide Piece of ShitTM is half his appeal. Call her stupid, but she’s still not out of her ‘asshole’ phase. It’s easy to ignore him being a sketchy fucker when he looks like _that_. Plus he’s an ultra successful photographer—which looks good on page six—and he’s a self-confessed heterosexual male who’s had casual sex with other guys so he’s like… _enlightened_.

She scrolls through the rest of the texts lazily, crossing one fuzzy slipped leg over the other. The further along she gets, the deeper her frown becomes. By the time she’s reached the end of the texts, she’s downright startled. She dials another number feeling like a veritable thundercloud.

“Dany, sweetheart, now’s not a good time.”

“Don’t give me that, Rhaegar,” she spits. “I’m supposed to be spattered on the front page of the internet because of my perfume ad—which _by the way_ I don’t hear your congratulations for.”

“Congratulations, darling,” Rhaegar says hurriedly.

“That was so insincere.”

“It was not.”

“Yes, it was. What are you doing right now?”

“I’m in the middle of a meeting, duchess.”

“Don’t fucking _duchess_ me,” Dany snaps. “This was supposed to be the beginning of my public comeback to film, and it’s been totally blown up because Jon’s wedding pictures are all over the internet.”

“What are you talking about?”

Dany sighs aggravatedly, wondering which god, in which lifetime, she must have pissed off to have earned such a family. “You have a son named Jon, remember?”

“Of course I—what on earth are you talking about, ‘wedding pictures’? Jon’s not putting his wedding pictures online. He said they were private.”

“Well, obviously that was a big fat lie, because they’re trending on Twitter,” Dany says, falling back against the bedsheets.

Rhaegar only shuffles on the other line for a moment. “Dany, sweetheart, are you certain that you’re not looking through a photo album right now?”

“No, I’m pretty certain I’m looking at Twitter,” Dany says, and then she pauses because this is starting to sound weird. “Wait…did someone leak these, you think?”

“Do you think Jon would just dump his wedding album onto the internet?”

Dany concedes that Rhaegar has a point. “Shit. Do you think he’s seen them yet?”

“I don’t know. If he did, we wouldn’t have heard from him. He’s doing principal shooting in Sothoryos. Dammit,” Rhaegar grunts. “There are articles out. They’ve ID’d Sansa.”

“Ooh, shit,” Dany says, brows raised as she crosses her legs in the center of the bed. “That’s not good. Should we do something?”

“I’ll have my office call Jon’s publicist,” Rhaegar says. “If she’s half as competent as she pretends, she’ll already be on top of this. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, sweetheart. You’re an angel.”

“That’s not why I called—” Dany begins, but Rhaegar’s already hung up to get back to his meeting. Dany glares at the phone and lays back against the pillows, browsing through the photos that have upstaged her perfume ad.

She will not lie—she had her doubts about one Sansa Stark when first she met her. Look, she’s not an asshole, okay? But she’s been around the block a few times, and she happens to know for a fact that dating obscure nobodies is hard. Not for people like her and Jon, of course—no, dating nobodies is infinitely easier for them, actually, because there’s a lot less pressure on a couple when only one has a spotlight job—but hard for the nobody. But far be it from Dany to be the one to tell Jon that and risk pissing him off. He really _is_ her favorite nephew. And now, after the lackluster reception her perfume ad has received, she’s honestly inclined to say that he is her favorite relative, _period_.

In the end, it was Viserys that told Jon over his Christmas cocktail at the annual Targaryen Holiday Ball right here on the compound the Christmas before last. Which is a good thing because Jon hates Viserys anyways, so not only did the advice fall on deaf ears, it also did no real harm to their already brittle relationship (thought to be fair, all of Viserys’ relationships are brittle).

Right when Dany met Sansa, she knew that Jon was done for. She likes to say that she actually predicted their future, because that makes her sound much cooler. Also no one has corrected her yet so there’s that as well.

Their wedding was, in a single word, perfect. Sansa and her mother were mostly in charge of the entire thing, and Dany was pleased to see that her own heaps of helpful advice were always welcome (though she noticed they weren’t always followed). The final result of the months and months of planning resulted in a breezy day on the coast of Lys in a villa Rhaegar had purchased twelve years ago and forgotten he had until Sansa found it in his property portfolio when he offered to host the wedding himself. Dany is still going to say that there were far too few people for it to have been a proper extravaganza—they had at least three hundred people that ought to have been invited, but Jon and Sansa ended up saying their vows in front of about fifty five people. But the food was excellent, the bar was wide open, the atmosphere was divine, and—most importantly—Sansa wore custom haute couture. Which was really a relief, because Dany has a friend in Myr—a male popstar—who married some nobody who seemed so determined to prove that she was a homegrown, down-to-earth sort of girl that she re-wore her uni graduation gown to her wedding. Dany still shudders. No, Sansa Stark is infinitely better than that. She wore a dress constructed for her by one of the most storied fashion houses on earth, the centerpiece of a day that—although she still insists was awfully small—was actually flawlessly executed if she does say so herself.

There were hundreds of pictures taken that day, she remembers. Three different photographers had been hired out from Daario’s studio, as well as two videographers. There is not a single moment of the day that went undocumented. And yet only five pictures seem to have found their way onto the internet. But they are, she supposes, the most important ones: the first one is a shot of Sansa, fully dressed, on her father’s arm as they made their way down the aisle. In the second one, Jon is slipping the wedding band onto her finger. In the third one, they are walking back along the aisle in a storm of flower petals. In the fourth one, Rhaegar is planting a kiss on Jon’s cheek. The fourth one is of Jon hoisting Sansa by the waist into the air. The last one is of them sharing a dance.

Dany pauses on this last photo. She’s in this picture. She frowns, stiffening abruptly. She’s in the background, behind Jon and his giggling bride. Her mouth is full of her slice of the freshly cut wedding cake.

She rolls over, buries her face into the pillows, and screams.


	6. Chapter 6

Sansa has only met Melisandre a handful of times, and has yet to see her without her earpiece. She figures it’s a part of her anatomy.

“I don’t want you to panic,” Melisandre says. “Because that’ll just inflate the situation, which is the last thing anyone needs. Especially Jon, but most importantly me.”

Sansa doesn’t say anything. She’s feeling remarkably calm, actually, given the circumstances. Her wedding photos are all over the internet—which should probably upset her. It did for a minute there. Except then she started reading about how everyone was torn between the possibility of an actual wedding vs. a perfume ad, and then shock and upset turned into smugness, and now it’s just mellowed out into nothing.

“Well, it’s not like they know how to call you and check,” Arya had said earlier as she blended an entire bar of chocolate with a scoop of Moose Tracks ice cream. “What are they gonna do? Use the WBI to investigate?”

Sansa never thought she’d see the day when she and Arya are in solid agreement, but for once she’s actually not particularly bothered. She isn’t stupid. She knows this is never going to last. But she’s feeling oddly detached from it all right now. It’s like watching a train wreck outside your window. While none of the wreckage has reached your doorstep, you can still sip a lemonade and not have to worry about the moment you’ll have to deal with all of the scrap metal in your backyard.

Ugh. Just thinking about the stress that she doesn’t have but is bound to be coming soon is making her crave a facial. She wonders if it’s worth the trek to Sephora to pick up a pearl mask. Maybe she can order a home spa kit. Would Arya be amenable to using one with her? Or maybe Melisandre? Sansa sneaks a glance at Jon’s outrageously sexy publicist. She’s speaking rapidly into the mouthpiece of her headset. She looks like she’s transcended the use of facials and moved onto using the blood of runway models to keep herself looking like Jean Grey had a baby with Sophia Loren.

Life is just so unfair.

Arya comes back into the kitchen and drops her empty glass into the sink. “So what’s the game plan?” she asks.

“I’ll let you know when Mel figures it out,” Sansa says, tilting her chin at Melisandre briefly before she goes back to watching E! on her laptop.

Her phone buzzes, and she wonders who it is now. For the past hour, she has been fielding frantic phone calls from distant former friends—the bulk of whom she knew during her brief time at King’s Landing University—begging to know if it’s true that the girl they once wrote off as ‘a shallow, biddable bitch’ (at the behest of their Lord and Savior Joffrey Baratheon) not only got over the pinchy, spoiled little shit, but got _under_ Jon Targaryen-Snow. Texts have begun to come in from further north as news spreads—she got a sympathetic call from her cousin Robyn, which is sweet considering it must be about eight or nine in the morning over there so he interrupted his early morning soul cycling to let her know that he’d do his part in banning the _Vale Chronicle_ from publishing the pictures in their morning edition. It’s a kind gesture, but when the pictures are on the internet anyways it isn’t really doing much.

It isn’t her former friends, however, who are calling her now. Nor is it Robyn. And (thank fuck) it’s definitely not Joffrey. It’s Jon.

“Hi,” she says.

“Are you okay?” he asks immediately.

“Yeah, I’m fine. And you?”

“I’m—are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. A tad put out. I’ve been fielding calls all morning. I think I’m gonna have to change my number. It never occurred to me just how many people I know—I mean, I haven’t spoken to some of them in years. But I’ve had this address book since like, the first day of uni. I’m gonna be spring cleaning it for the rest of the day. What about you? How is filming?”

“Filming? I mean what about…has anyone said anything to you?”

“What?”

“I hired security a few months back—I booked some, I mean—but the detail won’t be ready for at least twenty four hours. Can you just…stay in the house until then?”

“Won’t be a problem,” Sansa says, and she squirms a bit, because this is how Jon sounds when he’s on the phone with a director. Or his assistant. This is how Jon Snow speaks when he’s doing business, and Sansa’s not entirely sure how to behave on the receiving end of that specific mindset.

“I’m so stupid,” he says suddenly. “I should have known someone would blab.”

“We knew it was going to come out eventually.”

“Not like this,” he says bitterly.

And this, Sansa can concede, is an excellent point. They planned it with Melisandre until they were all purple in the face, but there was never a version of their ‘coming out’ that involved the wedding photos seeing the light of day. Those were always meant to remain private.

Sansa chews her lip. “There’s nothing we can do about it now. Melisandre is here with me. She’s been swearing into her phone since she got here. She’ll come up with something. And Sam called earlier. He’s already got Mick Zaphos on the phone from like…Leng. They’re suspending the account that uploaded the pictures before they can upload anymore. Wherever this leak is, they’ll find it and plug it before anything else can get out.”

“If they’d covered all the bases before, they wouldn’t be tracing leaks now,” Jon says.

“That’s not fair, Jon. They’re doing what they can.”

“How did Mel not see this coming? It’s literally her _job_ to stop shit like this from happening!”

“You should see how hard she’s working right now. I think she’s worn down a path in the tiles.”

Jon sighs. “Can you just…can you just not leave the house until your security detail gets there?”

“Will do, Captain,” she says as Melisandre snaps her fingers pointedly. “Hang on, Mel’s calling.” Sansa lowers the phone to her shoulder. “Yeah?”

“I’ve got something worked out,” she says. “I need to talk to Jon.” Sansa hands her the phone and returns to her yogurt in peace.

“How’s he taking it?” Arya asks as they settle on the sofa.

“Not well,” Sansa says. “He’s in Terminator mode. Perfect form.”

“I don’t know why everyone’s making such a fuss,” Arya says. “It’s not exactly a scandal. How are you?”

“Fine,” Sansa says. “I feel like I’m in that silent, peaceful moment before a tsunami hits. I’m just trying to prolong that as much as I can.”

“Good on you,” Arya says, and the doorbell rings.

Sansa scrolls through Netflix as Arya checks the door. When she returns, it’s with a surly Hot Pie carrying a massive open box. Arya has already pulled a cookie from its contents, chewing happily and blissfully unaware of her friend glaring at her.

“Hello, Hot Pie,” Sansa says, flashing him what she hopes to be her most winning smile.

Hot Pie does not relent, now shifting his glare onto her. “Sansa,” he says in greeting, lowering the box onto the coffee table.

Sansa gestures to the TV. “ _Unsullied_? We’re still on season one.”

Hot Pie shifts his hearty glare onto the TV screen as he sinks into the space beside Sansa. Arya collapses onto his other side, already working on the second cookie.

Twenty minutes into the episode, Black Rat, a hydrophobe, is commencing his training by being dumped into a seventeen foot deep pool of water. Hot Pie is gasping, Sansa is panicking, and Arya is eating. Melisandre drops the phone onto Sansa’s lap.

“It’s settled,” she says.

“What’s settled?” Hot Pie asks.

“What did Jon say?” Sansa asks.

“I’m going to release a statement later today,” Melisandre answers. “There were alternative options but this one is the simplest and draws the least negative attention. The only thing we really need to worry about now is finding out where those pictures came from and if whoever leaked them is planning on leaking more.”

“What are you going to do when you find them?”

“Jon’s already called Jeor Mormont. Once Mick Zaphos gets his hands on the account information for the uploader, the firm will send a cease and desist. Judge Connington is a personal friend of Rhaegar’s, they’ll have the order before sunset.”

“Did it leak from Daario Naharis?” Arya asks.

“Unlikely,” Melisandre shakes her head. “He’s the highest paid photographer on the planet. He doesn’t need the money, he certainly doesn’t need the publicity, and he wouldn’t compromise his reputation over wedding photos. But he’s the only person outside of your immediate families who has access to the pictures. It might have come from his studio without him knowing. A disgruntled assistant or vengeful intern trying to capitalize on the scoop of the year. It happens.”

“I’d hate to think of my wedding as a scoop,” Sansa says.

Melisandre shrugs. “Honey, you’ve married an actor. Your entire life is about to become a scoop. Now I need you to do something for me. That e-zine you work for, Smoke and Mirrors? I need you to write something for them and have it up quickly.”

“Why?”

“Because everyone knows you work there now. They’ll be watching the site to see if you’re active. If you’re too quiet for too long, they’ll assume Jon’s got you locked in a closet somewhere. Our tactic is ‘business as usual’. If we don’t treat it like front page news, then the excitement will die down as we slowly— _slowly_ —introduce you to the public eye.”

“How are we going to do that?”

“Well, as soon as your security detail gets here, you’re going to go shopping,” Melisandre says. “But somewhere safe, like H&M. Stay away from the tony flagship stores, alright? No designer labels. Buy yourself a soda—something visibly sugary. Don’t wear heels. Keep your hair in a ponytail. Go for simple, casual, and don’t wear anything with a label on it. Take your sister with you, actually.”

“What’s the point in all of that?”

“Well, now the whole world knows about you,” Melisandre says. “And now they’re wondering who you are. And who you are is none of my concern. Journalist, professional clown, nudist, serial killer—that’s your business. The public’s perception of who you are is _my_ business. So I am going to need you to present yourself as a homegrown, normal girl. Polished, but casual. Doesn’t have a crazy, demanding dietary restriction. Isn’t a pampered housewife. Hey everyone! Here’s Sansa Stark! She kept her last name after marrying into a southron dynasty! What a feminist! She wears jeans and sweaters from Top Shop, oh I have one just like that! How cool! Look at that, she drives a—what do you drive?”

“My Mini Cooper is in the garage,” Sansa says.

“Excellent. A Mini Cooper, what a cute car! Oh, there she is with Jon’s loveable dog, thank heaven she isn’t one of those ditzes who carries a little Chihuahua in her purse! And look at that—she drinks regular soda because she knows diet tastes like cat piss! Oh, she’s sooooo relatable! Oh my god, she eats red meat—though to be fair it is a bit chic these days to be going vegan or paleo—how relaxed! The name of the game is to control how the world perceives the information that they now have. So we have two options: the cool as a cucumber, normal sweetheart who still shops at Forever 21 even though her husband is descended from literal royalty—or a Real Housewife.”

Melisandre stops to watch them now, blue eyes darting to and fro, and then settle on Hot Pie between them. “What the fuck is that?” she asks.

Hot Pie blinks. “I’m Hot Pie.”

“Your mother named you Hot Pie?”

“No. She named me Sheldon.”

Melisandre shudders. “Stick with Hot Pie. He can go with you. Lends credence to the whole ‘I’m a normal girl’ angle.”

“Why is that even important? Are they just gonna swing between ‘normal girl’ and ‘spoiled brat’ like a fucking pendulum?” Arya asks.

“A pendulum,” Melisandre says, nodding. “A seesaw, a swing, a ball sack. If we don’t actively push them in the direction of one, they’ll swing into the direction of the other, and the other is much worse. Post an article—a really smart one—and head out as soon as you’ve got a security guard. Take these two with you. For fuck’s sake, _dress casually_.”

Melisandre leaves in a swirl of wine red hair with the lingering scent of cinnamon and that caramel macchiato in the air. Hot Pie glances between them.

“Are we going shopping?” he asks.

“Nah,” Arya says.

“Yes,” Sansa says over her. “And we’ll go for a movie while we’re at it. How about it, Arya? Cinema?”

“Fine. We’ll bring Lommy along as well. If we’re bringing Tweedle Dum, we may as well have Tweedle Dee.”

“Is that what you call them, you meanie?” Sansa asks as her phone buzzes again.

“It’s a fucking double act, isn’t it?” Arya says, dodging Hot Pie’s half hearted shove.

Sansa laughs, glancing down at the screen of her phone. She smiles, lifting the phone to her ear immediately. “I meant to call you sooner, but it slipped my mind completely. Has it reached Winterfell already?”

“By pure chance,” Catelyn Stark replies. “Your father called a few minutes ago. One of his deputies saw it and showed it to him. I’m so sorry, lemon drop. I saw how hard you and Jon worked to keep it all private.”

“It’s alright. It’s only a few shots. His publicist is working on fixing it right now.”

“But it’s out in the open now. And so are you.”

“True. But that was always going to happen. Not the pictures. But me, coming out. We were preparing for it. It’s a tad earlier than we’d have liked, of course.”

“How is Jon handling it?”

“Honestly? Not well. He’s a bit nervous.”

“And you?”

“Nerves haven’t set in yet for me,” Sansa admits. “Which is starting to worry me a bit. Because Jon knows what all of this is like. So if he’s concerned, then shouldn’t I be?”

“Grateful is what you should be,” Catelyn says. “Worry ages a girl. And you know, it’s either a hit or a miss. Either you age like wine, or you age like milk. Which would you rather?”

Sansa smiles. “You’re exaggerating.”

“No, it’s true! I— _RICKON STARK, GET DOWN FROM THERE!_ I have to run, lemon drop. Kiss your sister for me.”

“So she can staple my lips to her headboard? No, thank you.”

“Was that Mum?” Arya asks as Sansa hangs up. Instantly the phone buzzes with another incoming call. Sansa checks the ID. She barely remembers an Annara from her time at KLU. She ignores the call.

“Are we really going out?” Hot Pie asks. “Should I wear something specific?”

“No,” Arya says flatly. “Wear a used college t shirt and a pair of your rattiest sweatpants. And some reebok slippers. Not the really flashy kinds—that pair you wear to the bathroom.”

“Maybe not your _rattiest_ pair of sweats,” Sansa says as the phone buzzes again. She checks the ID, except its a notification. Margaery’s uploaded a picture to her insta. Sansa unlocks her phone to check it.

“No, no, no. The absolute _worst_. Imagine you’re dressing for the gym,” Arya says.

“Except it’s on a day when the hot girl who always uses the soul cycle is coming,” Sansa adds as she watches the brief video Margaery shot of her little pug Rosie running away from a gentle incoming wave on the shores of the Summer Sea.

“Except you don’t give a shit because you’re gay,” Arya says.

“I’m not gay,” Hot Pie says as Sansa likes the video and posts a few sparkling hearts in the comment section. “And—come on. Is this the figure of a man who spends his time at the gym?”

“That’s why we said imagine, stupid,” Arya says, rolling her eyes. Sansa has just finished typing up her comment when the phone buzzes again. It’s an incoming call. When she sees the number, she recognizes it instantly.

“Ew,” Sansa says. “Harry Hardyng is calling me.”

Arya chokes on her own spit, coughing so hard her eyes well up. “The fuck? Are you serious?”

Sansa nods, moving to hit ‘reject’, but Arya has reached forward and snatched it from her hands. “Give it back, you fucking monkey—”

“Ho-hum Harry Hardyng,” Arya says, stretching her arm clear across Hot Pie and pressing her palm flat in Sansa’s face. “What on earth would _possess_ you to call this number?”

Sansa pushes Arya’s hand away and reaches for the phone. Arya puts it on speaker.

“Is…is Sansa there?” Sansa is taken aback at the sound of his voice. She hasn’t heard it in two years.

Every girl has dated a Harry Hardyng, and as far as exes go, Sansa is inclined to say that Harry is the least awful of the bunch. Granted, the bar is not particularly high, as his only competition is Joffrey, the spoiled little shit, and Ramsay, who she hasn’t seen or heard from since Robb went to ‘have a talk’ with him two years ago after he saw bruises on Sansa’s arms shaped mysteriously like handprints. No, no, Harry Hardyng is probably Sansa’s favorite ex. He’s easy—cocky, handsome, vibrant—just _easy_. And as the saying goes, ‘easy come, easy go’.

“She’s not here,” Arya says. “She’s having sex in her Jacuzzi. What do you want?”

“I…” Harry trails off as Sansa rolls her eyes pointedly at Arya. Truth be told, Sansa doesn’t particularly care for what Harry Hardyng might be calling to say. She doesn’t care if he’s curious, or if he’s put out, or if he’s like, drowning. It actually surprises her how indifferent she’s become, but Harry Hardyng is easy, and easy people aren’t ever really remembered for exciting emotions. She picks the remote back up and wags it in front of Arya’s face. “Is she seriously not there?”

“Keep it quick,” Sansa says. “Or I’ll just play it without you.”

“Nope, she’s here,” Arya says, shoving a cookie in her mouth and dusting the crumbs off on her pants. “We’re binging _Unsullied_ , you know how that is.”

“I was just on Twitter and I saw these weird pictures,” Harry begins. “I thought, hey, I know that girl. She’s not…when did she get into modelling?”

“She didn’t,” Arya says flatly.

“So…those are like…real.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s just so weird,” Harry says with a forced chuckle. “Because like…where did they even meet, right?”

“Jon’s a family friend,” Arya says. “An _old_ family friend.”

“Really? So like…did they know each other from like…when we were together?”

“Before that, even,” Arya says. “I wish you had told us you were a fan of his. We’d have gotten you his autograph or something. I think we still can, but you’d have to ask Sansa for that.”

“No, no,” Harry says quickly. “It’s alright. I just…I guess I just wanted to check up on her, y’know? See how she’s doing and all.”

Sansa smiles as she bites into one of the cookies in the box.

“She’s doing great,” Arya says. “Just spiffy. Still got that newlywed glow.”

“Yeah…just out of curiosity…how long ago was the wedding? I never heard about it.”

“Probably because it was a big secret,” Arya says. “Friends and family only. Exclusive,” she adds tantalizingly, and Sansa raises a disapproving eyebrow.

Arya and Sansa always locked horns as children over their vastly different approaches to conflict. Arya liked to power through with the force of a raging bull (apt considering her new boyfriend’s moniker) while Sansa liked to take the subtler route. Arya’s defense was always in her fists, Sansa’s in her words. Over the years, they developed a keener appreciation for each other’s unique talents. Sansa’s experience with Ramsey certainly instilled in her a respect in the art of self-defense, which Arya was all too glad to instruct her in. However, Sansa had not gotten the impression that cutting someone down with words was something that Arya ever felt the need to learn. And yet, Sansa is colored shocked. Here she is, Arya Stark—the girl who couldn’t understand the intricacies of a Liam Neeson thriller if more than three words were spoken together—using her least favorite weapon on her least favorite of Sansa’s exes. And Harry _is_ Arya’s least favorite of Sansa’s exes. While Joffrey could be beaten to a pulp and Ramsay could be stabbed in the leg with a carving knife (and they were), Harry had no violent crimes, only nonviolent misdemeanors. So yes, it is a tad shocking to see how well Arya has learned to use Sansa’s favorite weapon.

“Exclusive?” Harry repeats the word over and over again, and Sansa shakes her head at Arya disapprovingly while fighting a smile at the schadenfreude.

“Super exclusive,” Arya nods. “Jon’s got lots of friends, you know. And most of them are like him—really _out there_ , ya get me?”

Harry is silent. He seems to have cottoned onto the fact that he is being made fun of. “Is she really not there?” he asks.

“Nah, she’s here,” Arya says. “She just doesn’t care.”

“Can I talk to her?”

“What for? You’ve got me.”

“I don’t want to talk to you, I want to talk to her.”

“That’s rude. My feelings are hurt.”

“Can you just—can you let me talk to her?”

“What are you even gonna say? _Take me back, Sans_? She’s a married fucking woman. _I’m sorry I cheated on you with half the eastern seaboard_? That might work better, but really, don’t waste your breath. You guys broke up two years ago.”

“Well, how do you know I want to get back together with her?”

“Oh, shit,” Arya says. “You should have just said that at the start. My bad, I didn’t mean to assume. I just got the impression last I saw you that you only needed a pair of legs.”

“A pulse, too,” Sansa adds quietly. “But I’m sure Harry’s no stranger to compromise.”

“Sans?” Harry asks. “Is that you?”

“Hi, Harry,” Sansa says a little louder. “Can you make this quick? I’ve got Unsullied paused for ages now, we’re trying to binge the whole series in one go.”

“Are you—I saw the pictures.”

“Everyone saw the pictures.”

“I just…I barely recognized you.”

“Yeah, that active charcoal facial does wonders.”

“It’s so insane. You got married.”

“Yeah. I got married.”

“I mean…how did that even happen?”

“I had a wedding, and we did a ceremony. That’s usually how it happens. Did you like my dress?”

“You dre—yeah, I saw your dress. It was…well to be honest, I thought it was a bit lackluster.”

Sansa smirks. _There_ _you are, Harrold Hardyng_. “Well, you always were a tough nut to crack,” she says wistfully. “I cut my losses when I could. I’m sure your lucky lady will be dazzling on your wedding day.”

“I’m not dating anyone right now.”

“Oh really?” Sansa says as Arya cackles. “Well, maybe that’s a blessing in disguise. Every ending is a new beginning, right?”

“Right,” Harry says after a prolonged silence.

“Well, I’ve gotta run. These seasons aren’t gonna watch themselves. Good catching up, though.”

“Wait,” Harry says. “I’m gonna be in Lannisport in a few weeks. D’you wanna grab a drink and catch up, maybe?”

“I don’t drink,” Sansa says.

“You’ve got champagne in that picture,” Harry says.

“What picture?” Sansa asks.

“The one on the internet. The wedding picture.”

“What wedding?”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Hm?”

“Is this—am I still talking to Sansa? Is that your sister? Wait…are you still on the phone?”

“I don’t have a phone,” Sansa says.

Silence. Arya is (poorly) suppressing Hot Pie’s chuckles.

“Bye, Harry!” Sansa says sweetly, hanging up.

Sansa’s only got three exes. Of the three, Joffrey is the only one, until today, that she had encountered again after their breakup. And of these two encounters, she can now safely say that Harry’s is her favorite. Yes, Harry Hardyng will always been her favorite ex.

She thinks very hard on it before she decides to silence her phone altogether. Her mother is unlikely to call again soon, and she imagines that anyone she actually cares enough to talk to already has the house phone number. So she shuts her mobile off and tosses it under the couch cushion. Jon seems to have figured this out quickly, as his number is the first one to appear on the Caller ID of the house phone an hour later.

“You’ve reached the Snow residence,” Sansa says. “This is the next Real Housewife of Golden Hills.”

“Really? Well, I’m calling from heaven and you’re speaking to God.”

“How’s the weather up there?”

“Can’t complain. How’s the weather down there?”

“A bit warm for my taste, to be honest with you.”

Jon chuckles. “I’m sorry I was short with you earlier.”

“No worries. We’re all allowed our moments.”

“How are you holding up?”

“Just fine. Cabin fever hasn’t set in yet. And you? How’s Sothoryos?”

“Dismal. I think it’s happy to see me go, the first rain of the season only falls as I’m headed to the airport. Typical, huh?”

“Airport? Where are you going, aren’t you still filming?”

“I’m taking the weekend off,” Jon says, and Sansa hears a distant overhead intercom on the other line. “Headed back your way right now.”

“Jon—you don’t have to come home right now, it’s really nothing.”

“Of course I do. I’m not leaving you there with this by yourself.”

“I don’t—” Sansa looks at her computer as it _ping_ s softly, and refreshes the page.

**_JON SNOW SPOTTED AT SOUTH SHORE AIRPORT AS REPORTS OF SECRET MARRIAGE REACH FEVER PITCH_ **

Sansa eyes the picture. Phone to his ear, iPhone case she picked out on their honeymoon at Eyrie Resort. Sunglasses and a bomber jacket, sleek leather weekend bag and jeans that fit _just so_ around his—

“Nice ensemble,” she says.

Jon laughs. “Sansa approved? Lucky me.”

“No husband of mine is going to be anything less than best dressed. My dignity as a fashion consultant forbids it. What’s the flight plan?”

“I’m connecting in Pentos, and then straight for Lannisport. Give me twelve hours.”

“I hope it wasn’t any trouble,” Sansa frets. “I know the director isn’t a fan of yours.”

“Don’t worry about him. I’ve got—hang on,” and the other line is silent as another overhead speaker echoes.

“Is that yours?”

“Yeah. I’m gonna switch this off now. I’ll text you when I get to Pentos.”

“Get some sleep,” Sansa says. “Drink lots of water,” she adds, and her computer _ping_ s again.

**_JON SNOW FLYING HOME AMIDST MARRIAGE REVEAL_ **

“Yes, ma’am,” Jon assures her. He’s still holding the phone in the picture, but he’s pushed his sunglasses up into his hair, and he’s holding a Starbucks. He looks like an off duty model, and this is when Sansa decides to switch off TMZ and close her laptop screen. “I’ll see you soon. I love you.”

“Love you, too,” Sansa says with forced brightness, because she’s not entirely certain which Jon she’s talking to, and if it’s occurred to him that flying across two continents is a really big deal to be making over her. She’s not filming a dramatic old Lannisport caper in the glamazon jungle—she’s literally eating cookies and lemon yogurt while binge watching Netflix.

 _Shush_ , a voice in her head reminds her. It sounds an awful lot like her therapist Dr. Maege Mormont. _We’ve talked about this before, Sansa. You’re not less important than the men in your life. You are loved, and you contribute, and you are valuable._

Sansa needed a year with her before she started to believe that. And it’s easy to—most of the time. But it’s easier, she has found, to _pretend_ she believes it.

She married Jon because he loves her, and she loves him. Jon likes to buy her flowers on random days of the week just because. Jon likes to sit underneath the backyard canopy and watch the rainstorms while sipping chocolate laced coffee. Jon is surprisingly addicted to cuddling. Jon once emptied a vacuum bag into a wire wastebasket. Jon makes her smile, and he kisses her every other minute. He talks to her—more than most people even knew he could talk—and she listens, and he listens when she talks to him. Jon doesn’t tell her she’s stupid. Jon doesn’t care what her favorite ice cream flavor is. Jon doesn’t push her when she drops a cup of juice. Jon doesn’t flirt with everyone else in the room. Jon is kind, Jon is gentle, Jon is quiet, Jon loves her.

She places the copy of _Cabaret_ under the laptop where she cannot see it. That is not her Jon. Her Jon is not a movie star. It is just Jon. She told herself over and over again that she would remember to keep that line between the two of them—work Jon and her Jon—and she’s sticking to it, because she promised him she could handle it and she will—by the Seven, she _will_ —because she is loved, and she contributes, and she is valuable, and Jon has no line in his head between his work self and his real self because this is his life. So she cannot afford to be whiny, because he’s got a lot to worry about, and she needs him to know she can do this.

She grabs another cookie. She’s fucking _got_ this. Scrap is still in the backyard, but she doesn’t have to clean it up just yet. And really, how hard can it be?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think I ought to clarify a few points here before we move forward:   
> The entire story, to this point, has literally only covered about three or four hours of a single day. From the moment Sansa learned the pictures were out until this point has all been within that time frame. Notice how Sansa got wind of this whole thing as Arya was ordering a delivery, and by the time the delivery's been made Jon's already made up his mind. So Jon learned the pictures were out, called his publicity team to control it, found his way out of working, and is now on his way home. It took about three hours, which seemed to me to be a little more realistic than 'Jon dropped everything and teleported home'. It was also intentional for Jon to call his publicity team before he called Sansa, because his life's conditioned him to react that way. Management is what fixes these problems, so it makes sense for Jon—who's been in the entertainment industry for over fifteen years—to immediately call his publicist when he has a publicity problem.  
> Also note:  
> Rhaegar is not a perfect human being, but he fucking loves his children. Even his sibling-pseudo-children. I was going for Will/Jaden Smith vibes here.

“I don’t understand why you’re coming back, everything is being taken care of,” Melisandre says.

Jon decides not to answer this as he settles into his seat in first class. He hates flying. Absolutely _hates_ it. He especially hates flying commercial, where he can be recognized and accosted by random strangers for a selfie. But the direness of the situation necessitated quick action. Chartering a private jet from the moment he learned the news had broken would have taken five hours, and he’d be taking off around dinnertime instead of right now.

“What’s happening over there now?” he asks.

“Well, I’ve already seen her. She’s got her pipsqueak of a sister and their fat friend who smells like vanilla with them. Honestly, she’s fine.”

Jon knows he’s moving quickly, quickly enough to alarm his management team. He has accustomed them to extremely quiet, hands off approaches to potential media blow back in the past. He only became aware of the photo leak two hours ago, and here he is on board a plane home. He’d have moved sooner, except it’d take at least thirteen dead immediate relatives to get Alliser Thorne to even _consider_ the notion of ending filming early—much less for Jon, who he seems to be nurturing a special hatred for.

He had been riding quite a smug high when the _Vale Chronicle_ had published that rabble-rousing article exposing his connection to his family. It doesn’t really sting as much as it did in the days, weeks, months following, but being perfectly blunt, Jon knows he’s going to die angry about it. He liked when everyone believed it was nothing but a disinterested desire to be an actor that propelled him to where he is now, but in truth Rhaegar had a bigger influence on him than he’ll ever admit.

The roots of his career were nurtured in Wolfshead Theater. His mother had never seemed particularly thrilled that Jon wanted a job that came with an audience, but she had her own sad experiences beyond the runways where she made her name. White Harbor and its glittering lights ground her down long before he was old enough to understand the lengths some girls can be pushed to so they can stay pretty and skinny and perfect _all the time_. By the time she had Jon, his mother was just looking for someplace quiet. Rhaegar had understood—or at least he had pretended to understand, because Lyanna wanted her _someplace quiet_ , and raising the baby in Lannisport was not her definition of the phrase. The compromise was settled long before Jon ever drew his first breath, and Jon always knew how much Rhaegar hated it, but settled anyways.

Rhaegar purchased a cottage (at least that’s what he called his opulent chalet) a scant ten minute drive away from the townhouse where Lyanna decided to raise her boy. Jon’s entire childhood was littered with surprise visits from Rhaegar—always bearing stuffed animals and candy and books. Many times he’d bring his other children along. Rhaenys would make snow angels with him. Aegon would eat the snow, and then end up hospitalized with internal cold injuries. Dany would build snowmen that she’d accessorize with HERMES scarves and Tom Ford sunglasses. Viserys hated snow, and would hide out in the living room and loudly complain to anyone who happened to wander nearby. At the time, Jon was accustomed to turning on the television and seeing them on the news, the family his father would bring. More often than not, he’d see a cult classic with his father’s own face on it.

In hindsight, it was inevitable for Jon to one day want to try it himself. And of all the people around him, it was Viserys who predicted that Jon would love it. And lo and behold—for once in his life, Viserys was right.

Jon vividly recalls his amazement at his first ever trip to Lannisport. He had barely been nine years old at the time. Rhaegar had been over the moon, smiling so bright he outshined the stars, holding Jon’s hand as they walked along secluded beaches with sparkling blue water, building castles out of white sand and knocking them down to build them again. Mostly, he remembers how he felt the first time he saw the lights, the cameras, the cords, the microphones. Mostly he remembers the stage.

“Papa,” he said in the car on their way back to the compound at the end of the week. “I wanna be on stage.”

“How can you be on stage when you’re supposed to be sleeping?” Rhaegar asked, shaking his leg slightly so Jon would bounce a little on his lap. Rhaegar pushed Jon’s head back down onto his chest. “I mean it. You’re way past your bedtime.”

“Can I go on stage one day?”

“We’ll see. You and I both answer to a higher power, I’m afraid. But we’ll see.”

It took two years to convince Lyanna to let him audition for a school play. He played Indian No. 3, and then he played Ebenezer Scrooge, and then he got a call from a scout working for the Wolfshead Theater, and he took his first professional turn as Oliver Twist.

It snowballed from there. To appease his mother, he joined after school extra curriculars, but it was plainly obvious where his attention was when the school year was over and he’d be skipping off to Wolfshead to audition for their summer features. The more time that went by, the more convinced he became that it was his calling. By the first year of secondary school, when he heard on the grapevine about a local aspiring director named Eddison Tollet making a low budget film about a bunch of celibate soldiers freezing their balls off at the edge of the world, the only thing he was uncertain about was his mother’s reaction. He nailed his audition—though to be fair, there wasn’t much competition. Rhaegar had used the word ‘mortifying’ to describe the budget once he saw it. It was filmed over the course of maybe two months, and only at night. The lighting in Jon’s current bathroom is better than the lighting they had on that set. Robb had accompanied them on the trip north for principal shooting, even got himself a credit as a sound effects editor though all he did was provide the screeching noises for the wights. Rhaegar had been weary, never having shot an independent film in his entire glittering studio career, and his _mother_ —Jon still shudders at the memory. Yet Rhaegar and Lyanna, instead of heading to the Wolfshead Theater to watch Jon take on Oliver Twist or Pinocchio, made the trek up to the Bear Island Film Festival to attend the premiere. Their only consolation was that it was so low profile, and likely to be so insignificant, that maybe only seven people would see it total.

Needless to say, that had been a massive underestimation. Almost overnight, Jon’s entire career _exploded_. Scripts were pouring in left and right, and Jon was learning to love this new outlet—film is so starkly different to the theater he’d gotten used to—and Rhaegar was, initially, the one handling everything. But four years after _Night’s Watch_ first catapulted Jon into the film industry, he’d made up his mind. He had done as he promised his mother—he had graduated with good enough marks to put himself into college—though whether or not he would attend had not been debated. He was tired of travelling to and from the North to film projects and dancing around delicate scheduling conflicts. As soon as he had his diploma in hand, he informed his father of his plans. His things were packed, his mother settled, and he was on his way to Lannisport to fully invest himself in his career.

It had not been difficult to come to the decision not to alert anyone to his heritage. He had been living within an atmosphere of controlled exposure for the last four years since he first started film acting. He could see how it could get worse. He didn’t need that heat. He didn’t need that expectation. People were wagging their tongues about him enough without knowing who he called Dad, who he called Mum. They already paid too much attention to where he went, who he went with, what he wore, what he ate. But that one little detail never got out, and the longer it stayed quiet, the more cocky about it Jon became. The press could be fooled, he believed. The _world_ could be fooled.

He’d been sufficiently humbled by the release of that damn article.

Oh, the spotlight was no worse than it had always been. People still talked about where he went, who he went with, what he wore, what he ate. Except there was a different undercurrent to it, as if the world was watching him through a different filter. The filter was distinctly red and black, and it took a while for Jon to figure out how to make his peace with that. But the one good thing that came out of the entire situation—he never underestimated the media again.

Which is why Jon is scared, quaking a little on the inside, wondering if he’s really done the right thing dragging Sansa into all of this. Because he knew, to some extent, what he was signing up for when he first stepped before that camera when he was fourteen. He knew what he was signing up for when he moved to Lannisport four years and three feature films later. He knew what he was signing up for when he asked her to marry him. _She_ likely never has—never truly. Now she’s with him, it’s not going to be as easy as it used to be for her to find her own little _someplace quiet_.

It was so much easier to deal with the pending fallout when it was still _pending_.

“Have any new pictures come out yet?” Jon asks.

“None,” Melisandre says. “And Mick Zaphos just texted me, he’ll be getting back to me soon.”

“Is it too late to like…trace it and delete it? I mean, it’s not like a lot of people will have seen it by now, right?” Jon asks. He hears a chuckle over the other line that makes him cringe. “Hey, Sam. Are we on speaker?”

“Hey, Jon. I’m glad to hear you’re headed home.”

“I’m not,” Melisandre says irately. “We can’t have people saying he walks off film sets at the drop of a hat.”

“He’s got a crisis here,” Sam says reasonably. “He’s allowed _one_ diva moment.”

“How did Sansa look, Mel?” Jon asks.

“Fine. You’ll see for yourself soon enough, I suppose.”

Jon groans, leaning forward and resting his head on his palm. “How could you let this happen?”

“I was absolutely positive we had all the legal bases covered,” Mel insists. “It’s likely someone who is so far removed from the bubble that getting into trouble over privacy violations isn’t a concern.”

“Could we seriously not delete it? Is it really too late?”

“Jon,” Sam tells him in that way that always sounds too close to pitying. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but your wedding pictures have broken Twitter. Everyone on the planet has seen it. And then there’s the articles with the images featured. They’ve dumped a bucket of feathers into the wind from the top of the Citadel. You’ll never catch every last one.”

“Good gods,” Jon shudders as his phone buzzes. “Don’t ever speak in metaphors again. You sound like my dad.” He looks at the screen now, only to see a secondary call incoming. “Speak of the devil,” he says. “Hang on. Sam, how do I put you on hold? My dad’s on the other line.”

“I’d tell you,” Sam says. “For the millionth time, but you’re going to end up accidentally hanging up on me anyways. Take your Dad’s call. We’ll call if there’s anything else.”

“For fuck’s sake, send an apology text to the studio,” Melisandre says. “You have Robert Baratheon’s number, don’t you?”

“I will, I will,” Jon says, and he tries to hold the call—he _swears_ he tries—except he cannot be blamed if he accidentally ends up hanging up, can he?

He’s not actually upset, but he is cringing in preparation, because ever since he hit puberty, cringing is what he’s been doing around Rhaegar.

“Dad?”

“There’s my baby boy!” Rhaegar says excitedly.

Jon winces. “Hey, Dad.”

“TMZ thinks you’re headed home, is that true?”

“It is,” Jon says. “I need to check up on Sansa.”

“That was quick. The pictures have only been up for three hours. Did you clear things up with your director? I hear he’s a short tempered prick. Has he been giving you a hard time?”

“No, Dad, he’s been really…fair.”

“Are you being serious, Jon? Because you know if he’s being a prick it’s only because he doesn’t like you. And I suppose that’s his business if he doesn’t—though I personally can’t understand why he would feel that way for the fucking _life_ of me—but if it bleeds into the work environment, that is highly unprofessional. Toxic, even. And no one is going to be bullying my boy.”

“I appreciate that, Dad.”

“Where are you right now?” he asks.

“On the plane. We haven’t pushed back yet.”

“So you should be here….when?”

“Late tomorrow. I don’t know. What time is it over there right now?”

“About half past noon.”

“Well, it’s early evening over here,” Jon says. “It’s a seven hour flight from here to Pentos, and then I make an immediate connection straight to Lannisport. Maybe two in the morning Lannisport time, I’ll be in the airport.”

“Then we’ll have to wait until tomorrow for your party,” Rhaegar says.

“What party?”

“And Duchess is going to be so upset, she’s already in such a mood as this whole thing has really done a number on traffic for her perfume commercial.”

“What party?”

“And of course Aegon isn’t helping. You know I saw him lying stark bollocks by the pool on my way to work this morning? My poor little starlight looked as though someone had date-raped him.”

“Dad, what fucking party?”

“The party I’m throwing for your _Cabaret_ cover, of course! I hadn’t planned on having one—it seemed pointless with you all the way in Sothoryos—but since you’re coming home, I thought _why not_? And we can include a celebration for Dany as well—my poor little princess is _so_ put out, it breaks my heart. But don’t tell her I said that—spoiled little brats, all three of them.”

“Just keep the party for Dany. _Cabaret_ already hosted a party for my cover.”

“Well, I suppose it isn’t a good idea to be flogging a dead horse. And between you and me, Dany left a few messages on my voicemail after she called me earlier. I think she might actually shove a cactus into my anus if I try. Now what is going on with this manhunt? Have you found the prick who leaked the photos?”

“Mick Zephros is talking with Mel right now. He’s likely found something.”

“Good. Send me their name as soon as you’ve got it. Now are we sending a cease and desist or are we going to jump straight to pressing charges? Because personally, I think the second option sends a better message.”

“We’re gonna go with a cease and desist first, but that is a good backup,” Jon says.

“You’re boring,” Rhaegar says. “One good legal battle is good for the soul. Have you got any eye drops? You know planes do nothing but dehydrate you.”

“Yeah, I’ve got my eye drops.”

“And your water bottle?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t be too ashamed to listen to Mozart. I know it helps you fall asleep.”

“Thank you, Dad,” Jon says quietly, sinking in his seat.

“So you’ll come around to the house tomorrow, yeah? Once you’ve slept off the jet-lag? Bring Sansa with you, it’s a party, after all.”

“I was thinking that we ought to lay low, not attract too much attention.”

“Why the fuck would you want to do that? She’s already out there. Do you mean to keep her locked in the cellar? Be reasonable.”

“I’m not gonna keep her in the house,” Jon says. “I just—it’s gonna be madness. Maybe a little quiet would be a good thing.”

“Jon, the house is a no-fly zone,” Rhaegar says flatly. “No one is going to be taking pictures there. I’ll tell you what—I’ll hire a security team for the event. If anyone so much as takes a selfie, they’ll toss the phones into the kennel and we can feed the guests to Rhaegal, Drogon and Viserion. Deal?”

Jon sighs. “Deal.”

“There’s a good chap. I have to go now. Drink lots of water.”

“Yes, Dad.”

“I love you, Jonny,” Rhaegar says pointedly.

Jon sighs, sinking even further into his seat. “Yeah.”

“Hm?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Yes, what?”

“…ilvyu…”

“Pardon?” Rhaegar asks without the slightest semblance of anything but high expectation.

Jon sighs exasperatedly. “I love you, Papa,” he says quietly.

Silence. Then Rhaegar laughs. Hysterically. “You are just _precious_ ,” he says, and Jon can imagine him wiping a tear. “Really, though, I have to go. Don’t take a sleeping pill, they’re bad for you. Bye, sweetheart.”

“Bye, Dad,” Jon says, and he hangs up as quickly as he can.

While they’re not yet in the air, he takes advantage of the wifi and begins to look at listings for a vacation home at least five thousand miles away from the nearest human being. This is when it occurs to him that perhaps his father might have a point, which is not a fun thing for Jon to admit. He’s sour about it until his phone rings and he sees the caller ID.

“Snow,” he says instantly.

“Mr. Snow? This is Brienne Tarth. I understand you spoke with my superior about activating service early.”

“I did. They told me you’d be ready this time tomorrow.”

“That is standard procedure. But we’ve become aware of the uniqueness of the situation, and I’ve cleared my schedule. If you can forward me the information relevant, I can begin my work right away.”

“Excellent,” Jon quietly pumps his fist into the space in front of him. “Thank you,” he adds, keeping his voice as even as he can as he leans forward and rubs at his eyes. “You’ve just taken such a load off my shoulders. I sent the address to your boss when we talked an hour ago, she’s inside with her sister. Are you in Lannisport right now?”

“I am. I’m en route to the address you provided now.”

“Perfect. I’ll let her know you’re coming so she can have the guard at the community gate let you in. Thank you, Brienne.”

“Enjoy the day, Mr. Snow,” Brienne’s voice sounds stilted and immensely dignified.

Jon chose her on a reference, drawn in by her imposing stature, her quiet dignity, her reassuring presence, and most alluringly the fact that she’s a woman. Brienne Tarth has a storied history with the Tyrells, coming with glowing recommendations from Renly, Margaery, and especially Olenna, who was especially thrilled at how easily Brienne was able to wipe the floor with Loras during a friendly boxing match. The phrase ‘ _absolutely_ _singular’_ was used.

 _Heads up_ , Jon types in his text to Sansa. _Your bodyguard’s on her way over. Her name is Brienne. I’ve just texted you her picture. Don’t let anyone else in, they’re a liar. I’ll be home soon. Love you._

There’s an overhead _ding_ as the pilot begins to speak, and Jon bites into his lower lip as he buckles his seatbelt.

"Hey—aren't you—oh my Gods, you're Jon Snow!"

He really fucking _hates_ flying.

Before he can switch it off, his phone buzzes. He checks the screen and smiles.

_I love you, too._


	8. Chapter 8

Hot Pie is nervous. Super nervous. Like…shaking. Lommy, a twig of a man on a good day, looks particularly small in the backseat. Arya is no longer laughing, but she’s still grinning broadly. Sansa can see her in the rearview mirror. She’s buckled into the driver’s seat leading them all to the nearest shopping center. Melisandre had told them to use the Cooper, but with herself and Arya, Hot Pie and Lommy, _and_ this most recent addition, there was no way they’d all fit in that tiny car. So Sansa hopes Melisandre can forgive her for using the larger Nissan Murano. It’s honestly not that bad.

“It’s not,” Arya says. “I know plenty of people who drive a Nissan.”

Sansa isn’t particularly fond of driving the bigger cars—they mean bigger turns and she likes to have the comfort of not having to watch out for the giant hunk of metal she’s sitting in as she drives. But even her new bodyguard, Brienne Tarth, seemed to prefer it.

“That mini is too vibrant,” she had said in the garage, eying the cherry red Cooper mistrustfully. “We’re better off in that one.”

And that is how Sansa now finds herself in the driver’s seat of the lead gray Nissan driving down Starry Boulevard in search of a shopping center.

“There’s a place up ahead if you take this next left,” Arya says, eyes glued to her phone screen. She leans forward, pointing at the street. “It’s got a Victoria’s Secret and a BCBG.”

“Is BCBG okay?” Sansa asks.

“I’m not sure,” Arya says. “Wasn’t the essence of Melisandre’s argument that you go economy?”

“What’s BCBG?” Lommy asks.

“A store where they sell girlfriends,” Arya says. “That’s why you’ve never heard of it.”

“Oi. Be nice or I’ll call the zoo and tell them to take you back.”

“There’s no way they’ll look at you and not think you escaped from somewhere, too.”

Sansa can’t see what’s happening in the back seat, but she hears an inordinate amount of slapping, and a dull _thud_.

“Holidays are a hoot,” she says sweetly to Brienne beside her.

Sansa, Arya, and Hot Pie had been settling nicely into the third episode of _Unsullied_ when she had gotten the text from Jon about her bodyguard arriving. She had been pleasantly surprised to learn it was a woman—she can vaguely recall Jon assuring her that he’d find a female guard—and she all but spat out her chocolate milk when she saw the photo Jon attached.

“Arya, look at this,” she said, pausing the show and ignoring Hot Pie’s protests. She leaned across him and waved the phone in Arya’s face. Arya’s eyes sparkled as she bit into what had to be her fiftieth cookie.

“What’s this?”

“My new bodyguard. Jon says she’s headed here now.”

“Oh my gods,” Arya had said quietly. “She’s _glorious_.”

“Lemme see,” Hot Pie said, taking the phone and looking at the picture. “Is that a girl?”

“Is that what they say when they see you?” Arya asked, flicking his ear and taking the phone back. “I wanna look like this one day.”

Sansa had been charitable enough to smile, but when Brienne Tarth arrived at the front door, Sansa felt quite sorry for Arya. She’d never be able to carry the presence of a woman who could clear six feet with room to spare.

Brienne Tarth is—as Arya declared—glorious. She oozes absolute poise and elegance, and she walks into the house as if she’s already clocked seven different ways to murder each of them. Sansa feels like a proper toad beside her—even more so than when she’s beside Melisandre. She decides that if things with Jon don’t work out, she’s going to marry Brienne.

Brienne had introduced herself with dignity, as she seems to do everything, and then they had all piled into the Nissan. After a quick stop at Callistan to pick up Lommy from his ~~stoner den~~ beach house, they set off on their way in search of a subpar shopping center to while away the afternoon.

“Jon’s coming back,” Sansa says as she makes the appropriate left turn.

“Does he want cookies, too?” Hot Pie asks.

“Jon prefers brownies to cookies, actually,” Sansa says. “Do you have those?”

“If it can be baked, I have it,” Hot Pie says. “But I swear to fuck—no deliveries.”

“We’ll pick them up on the way back to the house, then,” Arya says. “Take the next left just here. How come he’s coming home? Isn’t he still smack in the middle of filming?”

“That’s what I told him. He seems really panicked about this whole thing.”

“Wuss,” Arya says. “Take this right. There it is.”

Sansa glances around. “There’s a Top Shop just there. And look—Victoria’s Secret is having a sale.”

“Doesn’t get more down-to-earth than that,” Arya says, nudging Lommy with her foot. “Out, dingus.”

“I don’t want to take off my sunglasses,” Sansa says. “It’s so damn bright out.”

“Then don’t,” Arya says.

“But they give a really bad vibe, don’t they?”

“How?”

“Don’t they just say ‘ _fuck off_ ’?”

“Of course they do! That’s the point in wearing them.”

“But doesn’t that sort of defeat the purpose of trying to look down to earth?”

Arya purses her lips, thinking hard.

“Oi, hurry up!” Hot Pie says. “It’s sweltering out here!”

“That’s a lie, you bulldog,” Arya calls out. “It’s literally 60 Fahrenheit in the middle of spring.”

“Well, it feels hot to me.”

“It’s the blubber keeping you warm.”

“Maybe I should call Melisandre,” Sansa says, pulling out her phone.

“That’ll take ages,” Arya says.

In the end, Sansa elects to take the damn things off and leave them in the car. They go into Victoria’s Secret first. Sansa has not worn Victoria’s Secret in well over three years, not since she discovered the likes of La Perla and Agent Provocateur, and she has not worn either of those since she befriended Margaery and discovered the world of custom lingerie makers such as _Rose of Highgarden_ and _Black Swann_. The only undergarments she has worn since she got married have been tailored exclusively for herself. Of course it’s a no brainer that this absolutely cannot fly with Melisandre’s current plan of action, so Sansa sighs, looking around at them all as they stand outside the store.

“Alright,” she says, and they step inside.

Sansa feels, for a moment, as though she has stepped into a time machine and gone back to her days as a shy, nervous secondary school fresher hunting for her first bra. It had been a light blue thing, no lace or frills per Catelyn’s instruction. Pitifully small, as she was only just beginning to grow into herself.

Dear gods above, she had forgotten just how on the nose this place can be. Dark marble tiled floors, white drawers filled with lacy bits and pieces, mannequins adorned with wings sporting itty bitty thongs. Time and Margaery Tyrell have made her a spoiled thing, accustomed to plush carpeted floors and swaths of fabric and look books instead of twelve foot posters of runway angels and the heady scent of fruit and coffee in the air.

“Oh, hell,” Arya says, and Sansa follows her gaze to Hot Pie and Lommy, who are looking around with eyes _wide_ open. “Get a grip, virgins.”

Brienne doesn’t seem to particularly care where they are. She stays within six feet of Sansa as they move past drawers and racks.

“I’m thinking I should buy something,” Sansa says. “I mean—what could I get, though?”

Arya looks around the area and shrugs. “Dunno. I haven’t been here since I was twelve. D’you reckon we could get something from PINK?”

“Those body splashes look okay…but it’s pointless,” Sansa says. And it is. Why on earth would she buy one of those when she has a literal cabinet full of higher quality perfume?

“Think of it as premature Christmas shopping,” Arya says. “We don’t need to use any of this junk.”

Sansa supposes this is a much better argument. And so she and Arya make their way towards the beauty section, leaving Hot Pie and Lommy to stare open mouthed at the posters and highly sensual photography.

They end up purchasing twelve different bottles of lotion, two tubs of body butter, one shimmer dusting brush, and two silk robes. Sansa will not deny that she is truly a creature of comfort, but that does not necessarily mean that she is a creature of waste. She and Arya both agree that the lotion can never be used by them.

“It’ll probably make the flesh peel off of your arms,” Arya says with a shudder as they walk out of the store.

And she’s got a point. While Sansa may be willing to purchase clothing with no brand name (Catelyn always said that was classless and _nouveau riche_ —a telltale sign of desperation) even her mother has always advocated for spending extra on personal upkeep. The term tended to be a blanket for many different categories—skincare, makeup, hair care, and undergarments all fell under that grouping. So Sansa, while being bred to never wear a piece of clothing with a recognizable logo on it, has been conditioned to invest the absolute best she has in things like lotion. Arya will deny it until she dies, but Sansa has seen her use La Prairie Cellular cream—running at an impressive five hundred per tub—and she knows she’s smelled Crème de la Mer on her skin once or twice. To suddenly slap on some sub brand Victoria’s Secret that is likely more perfume than it is lotion is such a ghastly downgrade that Sansa is likely to fossilize the instant a drop of it touches her skin.

“It seems sort of horrible to be gifting it to someone else, though,” Sansa says as they all walk out.

“D’you think this is real silk?” Arya asks, rubbing the fabric of the robe that she has half pulled out of the bag as they make their way to the sidewalk.

“Where are we going next?” Lommy asks eagerly.

“Another lingerie shop,” Arya says, not looking over her shoulder. “This time, Sansa’s gonna model some pieces and you two need to judge them.”

Sansa ignores this as she spots a fish and chips shop.

“Really?” Hot Pie squeaks.

“No, you absolute horn dogs. In fact, I think our next stop is the nearest sept because you two need to find the seven again. Tell them all about your creepy Sans-tasies.”

“Very clever wordplay, Arya,” Sansa commends her distractedly as she leads the party towards the shop. “Anyone fancy a juice before we head into Top Shop?”

She looks around at them all. The only one not carrying a bag is Brienne, who is looking up and down the sidewalk.

“I could use a cola,” Arya says.

“Brienne? Fancy a cola?” Sansa asks.

Brienne looks back at her. “No thank you, ma’am.”

“Dear gods,” Sansa shakes her head. “I hear ‘ma’am’, and I think of my mother. Just Sansa, please.”

“Very well. No thank you, Sansa.”

“Are you certain? I feel a right twat treating everyone else and not getting you anything. I’m sure they have sparkling water. Maybe a Gatorade?”

Brienne doesn’t refuse, which Sansa takes as a yes, and the group make their way into the fish and chips shop. It smells greasy and salty, and Arya and Lommy lead the way to a window booth.

“Aren’t we only getting drinks?” Hot Pie asks. “Why are you sitting down?”

“Because I’m tired and Lommy probably needs to hide his erection,” Arya says as she plops down onto the seat.

Sansa can barely see the menu behind the counter—she’s dreadfully near-sighted—so Arya just reads aloud to her what their options are.

“Lots of juices,” she says. “Pressed, mostly. Ew. Who wants to drink beet juice with apple vinegar?”

“Someone who really doesn’t like themselves,” Sansa muses. “Hot Pie, Lommy, get whatever you like, but get a Gatorade for Brienne and that pink lemonade for me.”

“Cola,” Arya says as Sansa’s cell phone rings.

She hands Lommy a crisp twenty as she picks up the phone. “Hello?”

“Have you been sitting on your phone?” Melisandre’s voice asks.

“Sorry,” Sansa replies. “I power it off when I’m driving.”

“So you’ve already gone out? I heard your bodyguard came early.”

“I’m with my sister and her friends.”

“Where?”

“Hm?”

“Where are you right now?”

“We’re at a chips shop picking up something to drink. But we’ve just come out of Victoria’s Secret and caught a sale there. And we’re headed to Top Shop after this.”

“Send me your location.”

“Are you going to meet us?”

“Gods, no. I’m on the other side of the city. But I have to send a tip to a few paps so they can photograph you.”

“You have to tell them?’

“Anonymously, of course. What, do you think they have magic Sansa sensors? Paps don’t just find celebrities by chance, they have to know where they are to get pictures of them.”

“I’m not a celebrity.”

“Fine. Celebrity-by-association. Now send me your location. There are six more articles about you online right now. I’m browsing through your past published articles for Smoke and Mirrors. You seem to have a broad range of specialties. You’re officially listed as sociopolitical correspondent, but I see that you write a lot of beauty and fashion articles as well. Walk me through how this happens.”

“I got hired when Smoke and Mirrors was still only focused on beauty and fashion,” Sansa explains. “Not like, ‘ _we cover Fashion Week_ ’, or ‘ _we judge red carpet looks_ ’ but more like ‘ _how to wear two different colors of denim_ ’, or ‘ _how to wear cropped pants without looking like a whale_ ’, that sort of thing. But when the elections were happening, we started to write a few pieces of how sociopolitical issues would trickle down to impact them. I was the one that my boss chose to write a handful of articles about that impact, like how the border trade agreement between the Reach and Dorne would affect the amount of avocados that would be available in King’s Landing—ergo, whether or not avocado toast would become more or less expensive. It was just about me breaking down those issues so that people could better understand how they specifically impacted them.”

“But you still write fashion articles as well,” Melisandre says. “Your most recent article is from nearly a week ago—you’re talking about what the best kind of blush brush is.”

“Of course I do,” Sansa says. Her phone vibrates in her hand, signaling an incoming text, but she ignores it. “The truth is that none of us writes exclusively for one specific subject. We’ve got one writer who travels a lot, so she’s listed as the travel correspondent, but she writes just as much about where to get the best faux fur as she does about tourist destinations in Pentos. Another one of us toggles makeup reviews and food and wine, but she knows her facials as well as she knows Arbor Gold. None of us is actually considered to be a specific expert designated for a single topic, but we have the titles assigned for the sake of clarity in the website. It’s become a proper company in the last few years, so we needed to have titles listed. The editor-in-chief just assigned us the titles based on what we were good at besides style, but the truth is that we’re all just a bunch of girls writing fashion tutorials with a little bit of everything else mixed in.”

“Alright. So I’m looking through the entire archive of articles you’ve written over the past twelve months,” Melisandre says. “And I notice that in at least three or four of them, you mention planning a wedding.”

Sansa bites her lip. “Yeah…but no one knew it was to Jon. I never even mentioned his name.”

“No, you didn’t. The website has a weddings section.”

“Yeah. That’s why I was asked by my editor to write something. It was a few harmless articles.”

“I see them. How to Organize a Seating Chart Without Committing Murder. A Guide to Wedding Dress Shopping. Bachelorette Party Destinations That Aren’t Beaten to Death. Prioritize the Shit in Your Wedding: Because Your Guests Only Care About the Bar. When are you going to upload something new?”

“I…I have to talk to my editor first to see if she wants me to handle anything,” Sansa says.

“Do you need her permission to write a specific article?”

“Not necessarily. We’ve got lots of reserve ideas. Unless there’s something extremely specific she wants me to write about, I can usually just dip into the reserves and pick a topic.”

“Choose something harmless and not even _remotely_ connected to weddings,” Melisandre says. “Maybe about how poaching baby seals impacts the availability of photography equipment.”

Sansa raises a brow. She knows Melisandre must be joking—as there’s hardly a correlation between the two—but she’s already considering the possibilities. “Like…something beauty related?”

“That could work,” she replies. “Heads up—there should be a few paps in sight soon.”

Sansa doesn’t know what to say to this, so she just wishes Melisandre a good day and hangs up.

“What did she want?” Arya asks.

“I have to get to work on an article when we get home,” Sansa says.

Arya scrunches her nose. “We’re never gonna finish the season at this rate. Should we stretch it out over the weekend?”

“We could,” Sansa says as Hot Pie and Lommy return with their drinks. She takes a sip of her pink lemonade as she checks who had texted her earlier. Hm. She dials the number and waits for an answer.

“Oh, you didn’t have to call, scarlet, I was only checking on you.”

“Awfully sweet of you, Rhaegar. I’m doing wonderful. How are things at home? I heard Dany is back in town.”

“She is. Most unfortunate, really, she’s in such a state.”

“I hope nothing’s serious?”

“Nothing at all, don’t you worry about it. Now what are you up to? Are you staying out of sight?”

“Well…the sight is being controlled, I suppose.”

“Oh, scarlet…at least tell me you have some type of security with you.”

“I do, don’t you worry. Jon sent her my way, she’s with me now.”

“Good. I was worried for a moment there. He’s on his way back, I understand. Just as well—he’ll be catching the party I’m throwing my little duchess.”

“Her birthday’s not for another eight months.”

“Not that, but her new perfume ad launched today.”

“Was that today?”

“Gods— _don’t_ repeat that in front of her—she’s been in a foul mood since this whole mess with the wedding leaking’s taken all of the press off of it.”

“Of course. I’ll—I’ll call her later today.”

“That’s actually brilliant of you. But you know what might be even better is if you come to the party tomorrow.”

“Where is it?”

“It’s right here at the compound.”

“I think Jon might want to keep his head down for a while.”

“Then he’s welcome to it,” Rhaegar says. “But you shouldn’t miss the fun. Look—I know my boy. He’ll try to weasel out of coming so he can stay home and do something pathetic like read Harry Potter in the bathtub or binge watch _Unsullied_ on Netflix for a few straight hours.”

“Yeah…how pathetic,” Sansa echoes stupidly.

“Precisely. Now I need your help to make sure he makes good on his word. I’ve got fireworks and everything—it’s going to be a proper party. Can I count on you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Sparkling, scarlet. Bring your sister—isn’t she in town? Make sure you dress up. Cocktail party and all that. I’ll see you then.”

“Bye, Rhaegar,” she says meekly, but the line is already dead.

“Let me guess,” Arya says as she uses her straw to stir about ice in her cola. “ _Tell me something, scarlet_. _Be a dear, little scarlet_. _Positively sparkling, scarlet_.”

“Just the last one, actually,” Sansa says.

Arya tilts her head back and laughs. “What a lush. What’s he want?”

“He’s throwing a party for his sister tomorrow and he wants us there.”

“Who’s us?”

“You, me and Jon, I suppose.”

“Ugh, no thank you,” Arya says. “I’d rather die than listen to Deluded Tireiron go on a self-important spiel for four straight hours. Once she gets started, she never stops.”

Sansa wants to say something similar, but she elects to choose her battles. Rhaegar Targaryen is not a man that can long be avoided, and it’s been nearly a month since either she or Jon last saw him. He’s never been one to suffer such a stretch gladly. But as he has been acting as a father to five children since he was younger than she is now, she supposes that there isn’t really much he knows to do with his personal time besides act as the mother hen.

 _Five children_. Sansa shudders delicately. She wonders how many she and Jon may end up with.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it was brought to my attention that I might be kind of an asshole. There was a sentence here (might still upset someone so I'm not gonna repeat it) and while it was definitely not intended to be offensive, it definitely can be taken that way. As a writer, I'm always looking for ways to grow and be better, so I'd like to apologize to anyone and everyone who was hurt by it, that it was unconsciously done, and that it won't happen again. To the commenters who brought it up, I'm leaving your comments where they are (though it was cool of you to offer to delete it) because I'm transparent about my missteps and maybe it'll help another writer who might read this and not realize that they've made a similar mistake in their work. As you can see, I've replaced the callous and insensitive line with something that might confuse readers because it comes off as an inside joke, but will definitely be made clear later in the series.   
> Thank you all.

Closet door wide open, facing the racks of clothes, Sansa stands with her hands on her hips wondering what in the hell to wear.

“I just placed the order,” Lommy says as he comes into the closet and collapses onto the window seat beside Arya. “They’re having some sort of special. Four large for thirty. Pepperoni for Arya, meat lovers for Hot Pie, black olive and mushroom for Sansa, and banana pepper for me.”

“Did you get pop?” Arya asks.

“Sprite,” Lommy answers.

“What about this?” Sansa asks, pulling a white lace number off a rack and holding it out for them to see.

Hot Pie scrunches his nose. “My mum might have one like that, I think,” he says.

“Well, I’m not going to Dany’s party dressed like someone’s mother,” Sansa says, hanging the dress back up.

“Isn’t it a casual party?” Lommy asks. “Why are you looking at cocktail dresses?”

“You don’t understand,” Sansa says. “They’re…different.”

Arya snorts, and Sansa knows she's thinking about the Swarovski pumpkins.

The Targaryen Estate began—as all iconic landmarks do—as a pitiful plot of land purchased by Aenar Targaryen when the family first came to Lannisport to capitalize on the moving picture boom that had gripped the nation. They didn’t have much from their days as bona fide royalty besides a small amount of a once vast fortune, but what they did have, they capitalized upon with sound investments in the budding industry. Aenar went on to build the first permanent backlot in the city—the oldest one still standing, and the only one in Lannisport with a bird street PO box. But when Aenar was searching for a proper place to call home, he alarmed his relatives by purchasing a plot of 40,000 acres an hour outside of city limits. What is now as iconic a landmark as the Walk of Fame, the estate was little more than a few spots of broken ground at the time of Aenar’s death. But his investments had proven sound, and the family’s wealth had been restored enough that his son Aenys was able to take on the construction of the house.

But after tragedy struck in the form of the market crash of ’29, Aenys’ legacy was cut short by means of a self-inflicted gunshot wound with a .22 Magnum, and the house remained incomplete. Rumors surfaced briefly around this time that the land was cursed, or perhaps that the Targaryens themselves were cursed. Whatever the whispers had been, they were quickly put to rest by Aenys’ youngest sibling and only sister, Elaena, who convinced her older brothers that the estate was a lost cause so that they would divert their attention elsewhere, and then took up the job of building the estate herself. While criticized at the time for her architectural pursuits, Elaena Targaryen’s name is now synonymous with legend, as it was under her watchful eye that the estate was completed.

Utilizing the blueprints drawn by her father, Targaryen Estate was constructed over the course of twenty eight years. A structure made entirely of marble, it was the first house in the Lannisport area to boast multiple centralized heating systems. One hundred and thirteen bedrooms, one hundred and _fifteen_ bathrooms, a dozen private gardens, six major fountains, and the world’s most iconic swimming pool (named for Marina Greyjoy—Elaena’s closest friend and rumored lover) all made their way from the blueprints into reality over the next three decades. Elevated at nearly two thousand feet and situated on a secluded cliff side, Targaryen Estate’s 20,000 acre grounds are still open to the public for viewings, drawing thousands to make the either hour long drive from Lannisport or the three hour drive from Casterly Rock.

It is on this grand estate that Jon spent most of his teenage years after striking Oscar gold with _Night’s Watch_ , and when Sansa first saw it the only thing she could think was that it was a damn good thing that the people who built it were dead, because if they happened to still be breathing somewhere then every single person who ran within her family’s circle back North would have written the Targaryen family off as a bunch of new money Neanderthals.

Parties thrown at the compound are never casual affairs, as Sansa learned at Jon’s warning when he first brought her to the absurd house to introduce her to his even more absurd family. Daenerys in particular has always been keenly aware of her family’s money. Sansa will never forget the weekend she spent with them. She had been given a lofty set of rooms within the house over the exhausting weekend, smiling through one function after another that had all been deemed by Jon’s formidable aunt to be ‘totally necessary’. On her second night with them, Dany had invited Sansa into her closet—which was two stories on its own and contained a separate vault within exclusively to house jewels—and they had spent the next two or three hours seated on plush poufs sipping mimosas as Dany pored over her astounding collection. The only person alive that Sansa thinks might have a bigger jewelry collection that Daenarys Targaryen is perhaps Catelyn Stark—and the pieces in her mother’s possession were not acquired in half the time Dany must have gotten hers.

It had not been too long ago that the Targaryen family turned up on Westerosi soil, so to a great many people Sansa knows, the family is technically still an upstart branch. But then again, it’ll be about seven centuries until any family south of the Neck is considered an old and respectable institution. That comes with the territory of being Northern—all of the oldest of Westeros’ families are there. Sansa has always know this—all of her family have, though whether or not they acknowledge it is another matter entirely—but she had no idea just how keenly this distinction was felt by their wealthy southron neighbors until she started dabbling in southron friendships. Joffrey had seemed so hellbent on them being together—especially so that people knew they were together. It seemed to be the most precious thing about her to him. Harry hadn’t been half so overt in his intention—Sansa came to suspect, before the massive fallout, that his family had wanted their union more than he did. Ramsay’s family is nearly as old as hers is, so for all of the horror that he brought her, he is ironically the only ex she could say never wanted her for the association. While Sansa has always been confident in Jon’s good intention, his family—Daenerys in particular—had always made her cautious. Everything the woman does, she does loudly. Flashy. Sparkly. Daenerys is all about the show.

Sansa supposes this was never avoidable. Before Rhaegar had assumed the role of family patriarch, his father Aerys had been building a career as a producer. After a distinguished twenty five year career, a kidnapping and ransom, and a successful rescue, the man had deteriorated into utter madness, spending nearly every single dime the family owned on one outrageous project after another. His madness culminated in institutionalization after he attempted to burn down the guesthouse with himself and his granddaughter Rhaenys still within it. Rhaegar had to rebuild the fortune almost single-handedly on the back of his successful career as a silver-screen heartthrob (Sansa knows for a fact that he was a one-time crush of her mother’s). While anyone can admire a person’s hard work, Sansa admits to herself that there are ways to celebrate owning a fortune without pronouncing it so emphatically.

“Maybe this?” Sansa asks, pulling a black jumpsuit loose from its hangar. “With…with these, d’you think?” she holds up a random pair of earrings.

“Looks good,” Arya says. “I don’t imagine the Barbie would want you upstaging her twice.”

“I haven’t talked to her yet. I don’t even know what to say.”

“Well, I doubt she’ll give you the time to say a thing. Just sit back and let her do the talking.”

“Don’t be mean. She’s nice. In her own way.”

Arya snorts again. “I’m too tired to give that a response. How do you feel know your closet has physically drained me?”

“I’m sleeping like a baby tonight,” Sansa says.

“Can we watch _Unsullied_ , now?” Lommy asks.

“I have no clue where you even came from,” Arya says to him.

“Did you order cinnamon sticks as well?” Hot Pie asks suddenly.

“I did. And brownie bites.”

“Ew. Their brownie bites taste like feet.”

“How d’you know what feet taste like, Arya?”

“I’m adventurous.”

“That’s gross.”

“It puts me miles ahead of you virgins. Have you had your first kiss yet, Hot Pie? Your mother doesn’t count.”

“We can watch now,” Sansa says loudly as she puts the outfit beside the dinner jacket she’s set aside for Jon and leads the way out of the closet.

“Did you see JustJared?” Arya asks as they head downstairs to the living room. “The paps were quick.”

“Are there pictures up?”

“Yeah. Hot Pie and Lommy made a cameo.”

“Really? We’re on the news?”

“Yep. You can expect the offers to come rolling in now. Endorsement deals. Commercials. Prostitutes. The whole shebang.”

“I’m turning it on now,” Sansa says pointedly as they assemble along the L-shaped sofa.

Her cellphone, which she had left abandoned on the coffee table as soon as they returned from their shopping excursion, is flashing. She checks it silently as the next episode begins to run.

“I swear we’re terrible at marathons,” Arya says, crossing her arms.

_Just landed in Pentos. Be home soon._

Sansa smiles, and then she sees the text from Melisandre, and huffs tiredly.

_Just got off the phone with Mick Zephros. Do you know Petyr Baelish?_

“Of fucking course,” she mutters under her breath. Because _really_ —who else could it have been?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't die, I swear. I just had some stuff to take care of with college that ended up swallowing me.

Jon’s thirty thousand feet in the air somewhere over the Reach when he plugs into the plane’s wifi and gets his incoming WhatsApp from Melisandre. In a way, he’s not so much surprised as he is supremely annoyed and incredibly disappointed.

“I’m not even sure how he got his hands on the pictures,” Melisandre says when Jon speedily calls her to scream about it. 

“He’s a family friend of the Starks’,” Jon says. “Well—of the Tullys, really.”

“You know this twat was the editor of the _Vale Chronicle_ when they dropped that article about you and your family connections.”

“I know,” Jon says, gritting his teeth in disgust.

“So do you still think you’re going to stop at a cease and desist?” 

Jon sighs. Sansa isn’t likely to approve of pressing charges. Lawsuits, lawyers, courtrooms and settlements are the bane of every respectable northerner. He can practically hear Robb’s late grandfather Rickard in his ear. _Only commoners press charges_. He had laughed at this at the time—the time being when he was about thirteen—but years later, he Googled it randomly and realized that it’s actually true. Lawsuits are practically nonexistent in the North, as opposed to the south, where people can get sued for throwing a paper cup at a trashcan and hitting a squirrel instead.

No, Jon has always been trying to assure Ned and Catelyn that he is perfectly capable of being Sansa’s husband without so much as smudging her honor as a Stark, and a lawsuit would most certainly be seen as crass.

In the North, disputes are settled by inviting the offender to tea on your massive, multi-millennium years’ old property, asking them to join you for a walk, and shooting them dead with an antique hunting rifle purchased on auction (only Milton’s or Bear Island Festival are acceptable in the North—everything else is for peasants) that is named after a maternal ancestor (Ned’s is named Lyarra). After the corpse has been buried beneath a plot of flowers on the property, the dispute is considered settled. It is for this reason, Jon imagines, that the North is frequently referred to as ‘a giant graveyard’.

Jon isn’t certain this is still practiced in the North, but he has to admit that he really likes the idea of inviting Petyr Baelish to Wintertown and shooting him dead behind an apple orchard.

“I’m just suggesting that you put some real thought into pressing charges,” Melisandre says. “Not as your publicist, but as your friend. You have grounds for a real case here, and I know that if we got Rhaegar on the phone he’d say the same thing.”

Jon bites his lip, breathing sharply through his nose. “I don’t know yet,” Jon says. “We’ll see. What’s on the game plan for this whole thing, anyways? What have you been up to?”

“Well, Sansa’s made Just Jared. Worked out pretty well. Her new bodyguard is just flawless, by the way. Did you handpick her?”

“I just thought Sansa might be more comfortable if it was a woman.”

“Good call. She’s positively spectacular. I’d fuck her myself if I swung that way, but she’d probably throw me off a bridge.”

Jon smiles into his screwdriver, looking out the window at the pitch black outside. “What happens now?”

“Now? Well, the hole’s being plugged, and the worst of the initial blowback is behind us. So now we can get to work on a more concrete response. I’ve been thinking that our response ought to be no response at all.”

“None?”

“None. Just like with that article when it dropped. Business as usual. Once Sansa uploads her article, people are going to be chewing on that, and the next public appearance you’ve got is _Late Night with Lila Florent_ in two weeks.”

“Oh, she’s going to be so fucking smug about this.”

“I’ve already talked to her. She’s pleased as punch that she’s going to be the first interview you’ll have since this all broke out. That’s enough to hold her. She’ll skirt around the whole topic, but you’ll definitely end up using the words ‘my wife’ in passing once—no more than that. People will get the hint that it’s true, and no one needs to make a spectacle of it. Lila Florent’s the last appearance in promotional work for _Dragons_ , and then its straight to the premiere. I think you ought to take her with you.”

“Lila?”

“Sansa, you dunce.”

“To the premiere? Is that a good idea?”

“It’s a brilliant idea. Award season is always right around the corner, and you don’t have any red carpet appearances lined up after _Dragons_. Sansa needs the practice, and premieres are much smaller generally. Less pressure. I’ve already got some names that are interested, so we’ll get further into it tomorrow.”

“What names?”

“A stylist and a runway coach. I mean—I’d pull something together myself but given the delicacy of the situation I’d really rather consult the professionals. You’ll love the stylist I chose, by the way—Jemma Redwyne—she’s got half the Tyrells as clients, and she recently poached Myrcella Baratheon away from Alys Marbrand—practically caused a war, in my humble opinion—”

“You’re losing me, Mel,” Jon says. “I think…don’t you think we should slow down a little?”

“You can, if you’d like,” Melisandre says. “Sansa certainly can. But I can’t. Perks of the job. Don’t worry. Sansa is a big girl. She’ll be fine.”

Jon nods even though she can’t see him. “Yeah.”

“And while I’m on the topic of big girl, I think she could really do something revolutionary with those legs of hers,” Melisandre says. Jon rolls his eyes. “Isn’t she friends with Margaery Tyrell? The two of them could be a modelling duo. Imagine the Instas they’d have.”

“I’m hanging up now, Mel. I have to check on Sansa.”

“Say no more. I’m off like a prom dress.”

It’s as Jon is dialing Sansa’s number that he realizes he’s not entirely sure what he’s going to tell her. He is still processing all of the information Melisandre has just given him. Awards season only ended a month ago, but he knows any publicist worth their salt will already be preparing for the next one. It speaks to Mel’s competence as a professional that she is able to anticipate such events—only ten hours or so since that snake Baelish leaked the pictures and she’s already thinking ten months ahead. 

It’s only after he’s dialed the number and pressed the phone to his ear that he realizes it’s late—terribly so—and Sansa’s likely to be asleep by now, finally taking a reprieve from worrying about what a sheer tornado the day has been. He smiles to himself at the thought. She can still have today.

“Hello?” her voice cuts his thoughts in half.

“Did I wake you?”

There’s something like a snort on the other side. “Awfully bold of you to assume I was sleeping.”

“What time is it over there?”

“Just after midnight,” Sansa says. “Have you landed already?”

“No, we’re just over the Reach now,” Jon says. “I think Mel might have texted you, but it was Baelish who leaked the photos.”

“She did. And it sort of makes sense in a way that’s less sensible and more disturbing.”

“Has he always been a huge asshole or does he just not like me?”

“It’s not you,” Sansa says. “It’s me. I was an intern there under him for a year in college. I almost upgraded to full time, too, except he gave the job to someone else after I refused to have sex with him on his desk during the office Christmas party.”

“Sweetheart, I really don’t need another reason to hate this guy. Did you ever press charges for it?”

“I couldn’t. He’s an old family friend and he’s married to my aunt. That’d cause more trouble than I’m ready for. But now we know he’s the one who published the pictures, at least. Did you talk to your dad?”

“I did just now. They’re sending the cease and desist. But now I know it’s Baelish—and hearing this shit about him harassing you—I feel like my dad’s got the right idea. One legal battle would be good for the soul.”

“My parents might have a few things to say about that,” Sansa says. “Speaking of, I texted my mum as soon as I got the text from Melisandre. She’s asleep now, but I’ll be talking to her tomorrow. I think my dad would be better equipped to deal with this than either of us.”

Jon is momentarily drifting in a haze of contentment at the image of Petyr Baelish lying facedown in the grass in the apple orchard with Ned standing smugly over his body, Lyarra smoking in his arms. He squishes that daydream, however, because _he_ is Sansa’s husband and it is therefore _his_ job to smother the bad guy/creepy ex boss who got away with sexual harassment.

“You don’t need to bring him into it,” Jon says. “We’ve got it all handled.”

“Maybe,” Sansa says. “But Petyr Baelish is a social tit. If he gets the feeling he’s upset too many of his peers—and my parents are friends with a lot of them—then he’ll fall in line without a fuss.”

“We can do that without getting your parents involved.”

“We can talk about that later,” Sansa says. “This whole thing has just been so strange.”

Jon conjures up his earlier daydream, but this time he is the one standing over Baelish’s corpse with a smoking hunting rifle named after a female ancestor. “We’ve just entered Westerlands airspace,” he observes, looking at the progress screen on his television. “Give it a few hours, peach.”

“I’ll try and have Hot Pie and Lommy out by then,” Sansa says. “Arya found your whiskey cabinet and I think they’re going to try to turn out house into a harem, so no word yet on what kind of welcome you might end up with.”

“Who’s Lommy?” Jon asks.

“He’s Hot Pie minus a few kilos,” answers Arya. “And he can’t even bake, so he might as well be sawdust.”

“Shut it,” says a male voice in the distance.

“How many people are in the house?” Jon asks curiously.

“Just the four of us,” Sansa says. “Though perhaps we ought to count Arya as eight people.”

“Go away, Jon. We’re trying to finish the season finale.”

“Yes, ma’am. Don’t wait up for me, Sansa.”

“I swear that _no one_ is waiting up for you, Jon,” Arya’s voice says again.

“I’ll see you soon,” Sansa says, followed by what sounds like a smooch, before she hangs up. Jon leans back in his seat, reclining it so he is laying down. The plane is dark all around him. It’s silent for the moment. But Jon knows that such moments are fleeting things.


	11. Chapter 11

It’s half past two in the morning when Sansa wanders back into the kitchen. Hot Pie’s half empty box of cinnamon sticks is still exactly where he left it on his way out earlier, Lommy following close behind to nag him as they caught their Uber home. Arya is still fast asleep on the sofa, the next episode playing automatically as she hasn’t done much with the remote still clutched in her hand. Sansa hadn’t really been terribly interested in watching the marathon after getting Melisandre’s text. She’s still not entirely sure why she’s feeling annoyed about it. She’s disappointed, true, but not at all surprised.

Thinking on it honestly, it makes the most sense that Baelish of all people would be the one to leak the photos. He has plenty of motive—being the slick little weasel he is—and plenty of opportunity. Sansa had made some small protest about it when her mother had penned Aunt Lysa’s name among the small handful of people who would get a copy of the wedding album. Sansa was still less than three months away from the wedding, however, and peak stressing. She was stressing table clothes, she was stressing monogrammed menus, she was stressing tableware, she was stressing at how much she was stressing. In her desperation to not become a fussy bride, she conceded to a lot of things she would have otherwise put up a fight for ( _how_ did she let Daenerys talk her into getting a raspberry white chocolate cake? She had been positive she would always want a lemon) in the spirit of just being… _not_ difficult.

Needless to say, preparing to get married had nearly killed her.

It had all been handled in good spirit, though. Sansa knows this even now as she throws a blanket over Arya and makes her way upstairs to crawl into bed. While she still looks back on some details of the day with a minor pang of regret, in the end it had still been a great day—which is what had mattered the most, right? She still got final say in plenty of things—at least the things that she hadn’t been gas-lighted into changing. Because really—who would look back on the day and care about what color the tableware was? Or whether or not the tablecloths and the napkins were identical? To Sansa, conceding on some of those stupider things in exchange for making her own major decisions was small potatoes. Letting Jon’s control freak aunt run wild fretting about their every decision was small potatoes. Allowing Aunt Lysa to have access to an _edited_ copy of her wedding album was small potatoes.

In hindsight, she ought to have seen it coming.

Sansa wonders how loud she’s allowed to scream on the phone with her mother in the morning. But wait—if she sounds angry, then her mother will be heartbroken. And it’ll snowball from there. Catelyn will tear into Lysa, and Lysa will do nothing because her husband is an angel and who would _ever_ have a bad thing to say about him? It solves nothing, and Sansa has not been bred to create tension in the family. That is not the way things are done.

Their room is silent save for Ghost’s low, steady breathing. When Jon is away, he likes to make himself comfortable in their room. Otherwise he likes to sleep in the guestroom by the fireplace they never light. It’s completely dark out, save for the few streetlights peeking in. They’re too far from downtown to be able to have those never ending city lights upon them, but if Sansa looks out the window right now, she’ll be able to see the bustling, glittering downtown area just beginning to wake up, giving way to its vibrant nightlife. She and Jon had dated briefly before they got engaged—barely half a year—but she remembers that Jon liked to go out into the city on his free nights. He’d facetime her sometimes from inside of a club or out on the sidewalk while waiting for his Uber. Always either completely drunk or coming down from it with a coffee in hand. She’d laughed at the state of him then, and then she’d laugh harder in the morning when he’d call her with a vicious hangover. While he still enjoys a weekly trip to a pub with the boys, he made clear to her that he had grown to slowly hate clubbing as his twenties passed him by.

“Loud music, lots of vodka, and shiny haired models,” he waved it off during one of her earliest trips to Lannisport after they commenced their relationship. “You see one, you’ve seen them all.”

Sansa pulls the sheets tighter around her body. The numb calmness that she had been leaning on the entire day has faded away in this dark, silent room. Her phone is charging on the nightstand, and if she opens it, it’ll unlock on the internet tab she had open of herself and her appearance on Just Jared. The devil works hard, but Melisandre Redfly works harder. And seeing herself on celebrity news was nothing short of alarming.

Sansa turns over, giving the phone her back. Today wasn’t bad. Really. She went shopping, and she had cookies. Hot Pie and Lommy are good fun. She has a bodyguard that can double as a second spouse in case shit hits the fan with Jon. And the whole world confused her wedding for a perfume commercial. So all in all—as far as days go—this one wasn’t too bad.

But if she’s being honest with herself, she can’t help but worry at what’s coming next. Baelish will have been expecting a cease and desist—because he must have accounted for one day being caught—and he will in fact comply with it. Likely instantly. But the damage is done. She’s been plunged into the stratosphere with her parachute only half deployed. They were supposed to have nine more months for her to be ready for this.

Thinking on it now only makes her angrier. _Her_ wedding photos. _Her_ private pictures. That little scumbag has them all, because Lysa has them all, because her mother gave Lysa them all.

Baelish had his pick of photos, and this thought swirls through her brain with fury as she recalls her favorite ones. Daario hadn’t done wedding photographs since his earliest days as a freelance photographer in his early twenties, but he had taken up the hobby again exclusively for her wedding day. He had captured so many precious moments: Ned in tears as he watched Sansa spin around in her custom couture gown ten minutes before he walked her down the aisle; Theon howling with laughter at Robb’s look of concentration as he adjusted Jon’s tie; Arya sneaking a sip of whiskey from the flask she had purchased shaped like an innocent hairbrush….

The way Jon’s eyes lit up when he caught his first look at her walking towards him on Ned’s arm.

Catelyn’s eyes wet and shining as she clutched Ned’s hand so tightly their joined fingers turned white.

Rhaegar kissing Sansa’s cheek as Margaery and Rhaenys twirled around them.

Sitting on Jon’s lap as the fireworks show lit up the night just before the dawn.

How many of those moments did Petyr Baelish think of putting in before he zeroed in on the ones he chose? How many of Sansa’s most treasured memories of her most important day did he almost share with the rest of the planet? He’s grown bold, that Baelish. Likely he knows what Sansa is thinking right now, the same way he always used to know what she was thinking. This isn’t a song that the little bird is going to sing to anyone, because it would cause too much trouble, and the little bird does not cause trouble. The little bird would not tell anyone something that would fracture the relationship between the Tully sisters. No, the Starks are a family like any other—they have had their fair share of drama—but Sansa Stark has never been at the root of it.

She has never wanted trouble. Really. She doesn’t. But there’s something about the look on Petyr’s face when he gets away with things people shouldn’t get away with. There’s something about the way he smiles when his eye catches hers, twinkling with mischief and heavy with suspicion. There’s something about the way he’s learned to play this game he’s been playing for so many years. There’s something about it. Sansa can’t name it. But it’s something that makes her feel like she can’t do it anymore. She can’t stand the sound of those pieces rattling in his hands as his eyes scan the chessboard. She can’t stand that her silence will have been a stepping stone to him gaining something—anything—even if it’s not money or prestige. Even if it’s just that little hum of satisfaction he likes to give himself sometimes when he does cruel things.

“What is a person without their principles?” he had asked her once.

She had been a delicate thing—she had no answer. It hadn’t made sense to her at the time—what is she, if not principled? A Stark is only as good as their word or their honor, and she fiercely guarded both. Because she is a good girl, a nice girl, who does and says all the right things. And a good and nice girl does not blow the lid off a pot like this.

And yet she wonders—what good is this honor if it can’t protect her as fiercely as she’s protected it? What’s the point of calling yourself untouchable if anyone can touch you and get away with it? At what point does inaction become complacency?

It’s unseemly to pursue it. She is not unseemly. She is Northern.

_What is a person without their principles?_

At the time, she had no answer.

But as the click of the front door bounces in her ears and the muted sound of footsteps echoes through the house, she thinks she has one. The bedroom door is wide open, and she hears the subtle shift in the bed as Jon’s lips press gently to her hair. The dip disappears, and the bathroom light quickly disappears as he opens and closes the door.

At two forty six in the morning, approximately twenty two hours after her privacy was hideously violated on the whims of a sycophantic psychopath, Sansa rolls over in bed and turns to face Jon.

He looks like shit.

“Ew,” Sansa says, rolling back over pointedly. She hears his tired chuckle behind her as she turns to lie on her back. “Welcome home.”

“I saw Arya passed out on the couch. What on earth were you two up to?”

“We binged _Unsullied_. We got cookies, too. It was so funny—you should have seen Arya. She bullied Hot Pie into delivering a whole box.”

“I didn’t know Hot Pie delivered.”

“He doesn’t. Hence the bullying.”

“What kind of cookies did you get?”

“Some oatmeal, some cranberry, some pecan…I don’t remember exactly. But it all had chocolate.”

“You better have saved me some.”

“Even with Hot Pie and Lommy we couldn’t ever eat our way through seven dozen cookies.”

“How many episodes did you watch? Did you pass me?”

“We didn’t finish the season. We were at the finale when we got tired.”

“Good. You’ve not passed me yet. Arya can never shut her fucking mouth. She’d spoil the whole thing.”

Sansa smiles, leaning into him. The scent of his shower gel is clinging to his skin, and he’s still warm and soft from the shower. His arms wrap around her almost instantly.

“Jon?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think the cease and desist’s reached him yet?”

“I think they’ll be sending it at the start of the business day there in the Vale. So he gets it first thing in the morning local time.”

“I don’t want to stop at a cease and desist.”

“Are you sure?”

_What’s a person without their principles?_

“I’m sure. He can’t keep soiling every little pocket of joy I manage to make for myself.”

Jon nods, and she feels his lips on her forehead. “I’ll call my dad in the morning.”

Sansa smiles. She’s so tired of finding the right way for a little bird to play the game. What’s a person without their principles? A question for the philosophers. Or perhaps Petyr Baelish. A better question is _what’s the good of having principles if you don’t defend them?_


	12. Chapter 12

Sansa wakes around seven in the morning with the startling realization that Jon’s arm is around her waist. Jon’s scent is filling her nostrils. Jon’s breath is warming the back of her neck. _Jon is home_.

She realizes in the same moment that she’s probably got a hole in her brain, because she literally talked to him last night, so _of fucking course_ he’s back. But still. She had been half asleep, it had been literally the middle of the night. She’d eaten way too many cookies to stay a size 4, had inhaled way too much Victoria’s Secret body splash to think in coherent sentences, and what’s more, she was riding a high of bitterness and hatred.

But she supposes she doesn’t mind all of that now, because _Jon is home_.

She rolls over so quickly that Jon jolts awake with an ‘ _oomph’_ , and has absolutely no defense from her planting herself flat on his waist and pressing kisses all over his face. His hands catch her hips in some attempt to ground himself, and moments later, she can hear him chuckling as his arms tighten around her. She wraps hers around his neck and hugs him close, breathing in that _Jon_ smell.

“I missed you,” she says into the space between his neck and his shoulder.

“I demand that this be my new wake-up call every day,” he says in response, fingers running through her hair. His fingers are always gentle when they handle her hair. It helps her on nights when she can too keenly recall how Ramsay liked to pull on it sometimes. Her arms tighten around Jon instinctively. “Where’s Ghost?” he asks.

“Probably asleep in the guestroom. He loves that fireplace. And he also loves scaring the life out of Arya in the early mornings because he’s the only one she won’t kill.”

“I saw her on the way in. She passed out on the sofa.”

“She did. Food coma.”

“We keep sending her into those and Gendry won’t let us have her around anymore.”

“You’re worried about Gendry? He’s grateful for the chance to be shot of her for a few weeks at a time.”

Jon smiles, falling back against the pillows. Sansa stays seated upright astride him, watching his fingers toy with the strands of her hair.

“Did you mean what you said last night?” he asks quietly. “About charges?”

Sansa sighs, and nods. “What will you say if I say no?”

“I’ll forget it happened and never mention it again.”

“Would you?”

“I would.”

“Do you want to?”

“No. But I’d do it for you.”

Sansa shakes her head. “I don’t want to leave this alone. I don’t want to leave him alone. Not until he understands to leave me alone—to leave _us_ alone.”

“Then it’s settled,” he says quietly, twining a strand of hair round the tip of his index finger. They watch it for a second, brilliant red against the paleness of his hand. “I meant to tell you…my dad’s having a party tonight.”

“I heard,” she says. “For Dany’s perfume ad.”

“We don’t have to go,” Jon says. “No matter what they say to you—”

“I want to go,” Sansa half-lies.

Jon cocks a brow. “Really?”

Sansa shrugs. “It could be fun. And it’s only one night, right? We can do it for Dany. Isn’t this supposed to be a milestone for her? Coming back to the big screen and all that?”

“Only if you’re sure you want to,” Jon says.

“I am,” Sansa lies flatly now. “Absolutely sure.”

Though she can already feel the mental fatigue that Dany seems to bring with her into every room, Sansa puts on a smile bright enough to convince Jon of her truth.

Electing to leave him to get some more sleep while it’s still early, Sansa heads downstairs alone to brew herself a cup of foamy coffee. She’s adding cream into the cup as she gets the incoming phone call on her cell. When she sees the name on the screen, her stomach does a flip. She’s not ready for this. Likely she never will be. Such moments are more Arya’s nature than her own.

“Mum?”

“Did I wake you, lemon drop?”

“No, you didn’t. I was already up. Jon’s home.”

“Really? That was quick. I didn’t think it would merit him coming all the way back. Though I am glad he did. I told you he was a keeper.”

“Yeah,” Sansa says, taking a sip of her coffee and leaning against the kitchen counter. “Mum, I need to tell you something.”

“What is it, lemon drop?”

“Jon and I were talking last night about what we were going to do. About this whole mess.”

“As in…publicity? Damage control? You don’t think anyone is going to try and get in touch with us here in Wintertown, do you?”

“That’s not what I meant, Mum,” Sansa says.

She bites her lip. She wants to scream. She wants to rage. She wants to yell and pound the walls and throw things, because she’s got an album tucked upstairs full of pictures that Petyr Baelish _almost_ posted on the internet, and she’s sick and tired of being a good girl, a nice girl, who says all the right things.

“Lemon drop? Are you still there?”

“It was Petyr, Mum.”

“What? You’ve heard from Petyr? Well, that’s expected. He called us last night to check up on us all.”

“No, I mean, it was Petyr. He did it. He leaked the photos.”

Silence. Sansa takes another sip of her coffee. “What?”

“Petyr leaked the photographs from my wedding onto the internet, Mum,” Sansa says, and it’s as she speaks the sentence aloud that she hears the full weight of its awfulness.

“He…what? Petyr? That’s impossible.”

“Not just possible. Fact,” Sansa takes another large gulp. The warmth of the coffee grounds her. “He did it.”

“Are you…are you certain?”

“Absolutely.”

“How do you know something like this? It’s impossible.”

“Jon’s staff traced it back to him.”

“That’s not possible, Petyr would never—”

“Mum, I’m really not interested in debating the possibility of Petyr’s guilt with you,” Sansa says firmly. “There are a million different things that I’m sure you’re ready to swear up and down that Petyr Baelish would never do, and I can assure you that he has done at least half of them—with special emphasis on the unethical half.”

“Are you—lemon drop, what is going on? Are we talking about the same Petyr here? He would never do such a thing!”

“He’s done it, Mum. We have the evidence. I just wanted you to hear it from me instead of getting a frantic phone call from Aunt Lysa when he gets charged.”

“Charged?!” Catelyn sounds positively panicked now. “Sweetheart, what is happening? You’re pressing—Ned! _Ned!_ Come quickly! Sansa’s on the phone! She says Petyr leaked the photos and she’s talking about charges!”

Sansa doesn’t hear what her father says, and she has to seat herself up on the countertop and take a steady breath because she’s not half as ready to commit this act of rebellion, and she’s not ready to disappoint them, and she’s got no idea how to _not_ be the perfect little girl they’ve always been so proud of, and she’s so _tired_ of being walked over because of it.

“What do you mean?” Catelyn says, but Sansa knows she isn’t speaking to her. “I—lemon drop, your father wants to talk to you.”

Sansa takes a deep breath as she listens to the staticky shuffle on the other line. “Sansa?”

“Dad?” she almost whispers.

“Are you sure it was him?”

“Yes.” she says.

“And you want to press charges against him?”

Slow breath. In. Out. _What’s a person without their principles?_ “I do.”

Silence.

“What’s been done so far?” he asks.

“I—Rhaegar’s legal team sent a cease and desist,” she says. “I’m certain it’s reached him by now.”

She hears a heavy sigh. “It was really him, wasn’t it?” her mother’s voice asks with miserable resignation somewhere in the background. " _How_ could he?"

“It was, Mum.”

“I don’t understand why he would do such a thing,” Catelyn says. “You’re his niece, for heaven’s sake!”

Sansa smiles. “Perhaps someone could ask him. But it won’t be me, since I’ll also be taking out a restraining order against him.”

Now the silence lasts longer, and it is a far more palpable thing, between the crisp, clean air in Wintertown all the way to the golden morning in her house on bird street.

"You're taking out a restraining order." Ned repeats mechanically.

"Yes. Jon and I haven't discussed that part yet, actually, but I've decided that I'd like one."

"Against Petyr Baelish."

"Yes."

“Sansa,” Ned says slowly. “What did he do to you?”

Sansa shakes her head. This is a different conversation, for a different day. Might be she’ll say it freely to them. Might be she never will. But that day will not be today. “I just don’t want him contacting me anymore, Dad. I don’t want him coming anywhere near me. I don’t want to see him, I don’t want to see Aunt Lysa defending him, and I don’t want to talk to anyone about it. I know—I _know_ this isn’t the way things are done. I know this isn’t _your_ way. But I’ve tried so hard to do everything your way, and it’s never worked for me. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t just…I can’t just _let_ people hurt me because they can.”

“And why should you? You’re not a sheep. You’re a wolf. Give me the number for Rhaegar’s legal team so I can have Mormont & Cassel contact them. We can plan our cases together.”

Sansa’s eyes widen. “Dad?”

“Sansa?”

“You’re not—are you?”

“Am I what?” Ned asks. “My baby’s wedding photos are all over the internet. Why call myself a wolf if a mockingbird can shit all over me? Give me the number for Rhaegar’s team. If you don’t have it, I’ll call Rhaegar myself.”

Sansa can’t stop herself. She rests her chin on her fist as the tears begin to pour down her face. They spill hot and quick down her fingers, trickle down her arm, splashing onto her legs. “Dad, are you really going to do this?” she asks, voice so thick she can barely get the words out.

Ned doesn’t leave a moment of silence—not a single gap for doubt. “Wolves are pack hunters,” he says simply, and Sansa’s eyes burn so hot she has to close them. She chokes on her sobs, but she can _breathe_ , because she was so sure that this would be the moment she stopped being a good Northern girl.

“I’ll send you the number,” she says, nodding quickly.

“And I’ll be waiting for it.” Ned says. There’s another brief shuffle.

“Lemon drop, is this really happening?” her mother asks in a horrified whisper.

“It is. Is Dad still there?”

“No, he just walked out of the kitchen. He’s gone upstairs, I think. Is he really going to hand this over to Mormont & Cassel?”

“He sounded serious,” Sansa says. “I hope he is.”

“Oh, lemon drop…how on earth did this happen to us?”

“You gave Aunt Lysa my wedding album.”

“I—of course I did. She’s family.”

“So is Petyr, by your own estimation,” Sansa says. “I told you we shouldn’t give it to her. He only got those photos in the first place because she had them.”

“We couldn’t _not_ give them to her, lemon drop! She’d have been heartbroken!”

“No, she wouldn’t, because she and I have never gotten on,” Sansa says.

She wouldn’t have fought her mother on this once upon a time, but as she wipes her tears from her cheeks, she feels something steeling her spine. Maybe it’s Jon’s promises. Maybe it’s Rhaegar’s. But Sansa feels like it’s Dad’s voice whispering in her ear, static but clear from Wintertown to Lannisport. _Wolves are pack hunters_.

“Lysa would—”

“Aunt Lysa doesn’t like me, Mum,” Sansa says. “I’m sorry to tell you this, because I know you really did believe that we’re all one big happy family, but that just isn’t true. Aunt Lysa doesn’t like me. She barely tolerates me. She doesn’t even like _you_. Petyr Baelish is guilty, and I’m going to tear him to shreds, and she’s going to do everything she can to defend him because he’s her perfect precious Petyr, and you’re going to hear all sorts of nasty things from her when it happens. I know how Petyr works, and I can only guess what fifteen years with him has done to her mind. The truth is that they _are_ family. But they’re not good people. I don’t want either of them anywhere near me. Not Petyr with his twisted games, not Aunt Lysa spitting venom. I don’t need you to immediately drop everything and pick up a pitchfork, but I need you to understand that I am angry. I told you I didn’t want her to have that album, and you badgered me into letting her have it anyways, and I am angry that it happened, and I am angry that you let it happen.”

Catelyn emits a sound on the other end that makes Sansa’s eyes burn again, because she’s not the only one going through an earth-shattering change this morning. “I’m so sorry, Sansa,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” Sansa says as a light grazing along her elbow makes her start.

Arya brushes past her to the box of Hot Pie’s cookies and scarfs down two in one go, washing them down with the rest of Sansa’s coffee.

“I don’t know what to say, sweetheart,” Catelyn’s voice is thick and shaking on the other end. “I just—I didn’t _dream_ this would be our family. That things like this could happen in our family.”

“I know, Mum,” Sansa says. “I didn’t, either.”

“Just…what do you need me to do, lemon drop?” Catelyn asks. “Just tell me what you need.”

“I just need to know that you’ll protect me from him. From her. From both of them.”

Catelyn chokes on a sob on the other line and Sansa swallows a lump in her throat. “I will, lemon drop. I promise I will.”

Sansa doesn’t know who hangs up first a few minutes later, only that she feels infinitely lighter as she lowers her cell phone to the countertop.

“You passed out on the couch again,” Sansa says. “You keep doing that, and you’ll get a backache.”

“What’s happening?” Arya asks directly.

“Petyr leaked the photos,” Sansa says.

“Twat,” Arya says almost reflexively.

Sansa smiles. “Jon and I are pressing charges.”

Arya grunts. “Good. Pluck that stupid bird’s feathers off and shove them tip first into his littlefinger.”

“Dad’s bringing up charges as well. And Rhaegar, too.”

Arya lowers the cup from her mouth, eyebrows raised. “Dad’s taking someone to court?”

“Yeah.”

Arya whistles. “Damn. This would have to be the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to us.”

Sansa smiles tiredly. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s hunting season,” Arya says with a shrug, and her eyes meet Sansa’s as she takes a seat on the barstool right beside her—river blue on sparkling gray—and Sansa wonders what lucky twist of fate gave her Arya where her mother only got Lysa.


	13. Chapter 13

Sansa has made a lovely nest for herself on the sofa with the remote in hand, expecting Jon to be abed sleeping off his jetlag. She’s even set an alarm to wake him up around three in the afternoon so he can look somewhat awake for Dany’s party tonight. But she’s barely past the first episode of _House of Black and White_ when Jon comes downstairs, hair wild, eyes droopy, and buries his face in her stomach.

“You can still get a few hours in,” she tells him. He shakes his head and she runs her fingers through his curls.

“I’m up. I can’t fall back asleep,” he says.

Sansa rewinds the episode. “I’m on the pilot. Barely ten minutes in. Looks good so far.”

“Who’s in it?” He asks.

“It’s that J’aqen H’Gar one.”

Jon cringes. “He’s so damn creepy.”

“My dad’s pressing charges,” she throws in conversationally, because she’s been wondering how to break it to Jon. It feels so massive, and she doesn’t know what to do with it except treat it like it’s little or it might disappear.

Jon sits up, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “Hm?”

“My dad,” she says simply, taking a sip of her coffee. “He’s pressing charges against Baelish.”

Jon seems to register it this time around. His eyes slowly grow less groggy. He blinks once, twice, three times, and then leans back against the cushion.

“He’s…he’s suing Baelish.”

“Yes. He wanted the number for Rhaegar’s lawyers so they could communicate with Mormont & Cassel.”

Jon rubs his eyes and sits forward slowly, resting his elbows on his knees. “He’s not—why?”

“He wants to help. A bigger lawsuit will hurt Baelish more. And he sounded like he really wanted to hurt him.”

“No, I get that,” Jon says. “I just…”

Sansa leans forward, understanding just a little more now, and kissing his cheek. “Don’t worry. He’s actually really excited about it. I gave him Rhaegar’s number.”

“But…they don’t sue people,” Jon says.

“That’s not to say there’s never been a single lawsuit in the history of the Northern province,” Sansa says, rationalizing to herself as much as she is to Jon. “It’s not unprecedented.”

“No, no,” Jon says, still staring at the floor.

His lips purse, and Sansa hates it when he does that because it makes her want to kiss his mouth, which she can’t do right now because he’s really confused and adorable.

“Not unprecedented,” he says. “Just not…done.”

“Well, it’s being done now,” Sansa says.

“But what will everyone think?” he asks. “I can’t drag your family into this.”

“They’re already in this,” Arya’s voice echoes from the hallway. She appears moments later with grass stains all over her once pristine t-shirt. Ghost enters mutely behind her with his favorite baseball between his teeth. “I just got a text from Mum. She says you’ve switched off your phone.”

“I have,” Sansa says. “Too many people calling me asking if it’s true I’m married to _that_ Jon Snow. Does anyone know how to mass block half your address book?”

“I can’t even text and talk at once,” Jon says. “What did Catelyn want, Arya?”

“Just to know if I knew where her good rain boots are,” Arya replies as she fills Ghost’s water bowl.

“Is she going hiking?” Jon asks, panicked.

Sansa pats his shoulder comfortingly. “She’ll be fine,” Sansa says.

She can appreciate that it is difficult for her mother to accept that they are now going to be embroiled in a lawsuit, and she distantly did realize that it would mean that Catelyn would go for a hike—the only activity she engages in when she is _truly_ upset. When Grandmama Minisa died, she was gone for a week to the Wolfswood.

“Not hiking,” Arya says. “She just expects there to be mud in the Riverlands with all the storms passing in from Ironman’s Bay.”

“She’s going to Riverrun? What’s there?”

“Blackwood & Bracken,” Arya answers in that curt, eager-to-be-done-with-it way she does when she knows she’s handling delicate information. She then proceeds to stuff her face with a cookie and thus effectively removes herself from the conversation, leaving Sansa to press her hand to her mouth as Jon exhaustedly leans his head back onto the cushions with his eyes closed.

“Mum’s going—” Sansa doesn’t finish, because why should she? Wolves hunt in packs as fish swim in schools, and why is she surprised about that?

She’s not. Because they’re family, so of course. But how long has it been since she’s ever faced Petyr Baelish in any way besides alone? How many years since she’s laid eyes on him and felt safe? How many nights during her internship did she spend lying wide awake dreading going to work the next day?

Too many. Far too fucking many.

She curls up closer to Jon and wills away the urge to cry. Those can wait for another day, a day when she doesn’t have to greet her in laws and pretend she cares about a perfume launch.

“When is this thing?” Arya asks from the kitchen, mouthful of cookie. “This party?”

“Later tonight,” Jon replies, and Sansa is pressed so tightly into him that she can feel the vibration in his neck when he answers. When did peace of mind start sounding like his voice?

“So can we go out now?” Arya asks. “Like…to eat something? I don’t think we’ll look too nice just having lunched on white chocolate macadamia.”

“Sansa? You up for a bite?” Jon asks, pulling away just enough to see her face.

“Yeah,” she says with a smile. “Yeah, let’s go eat something.”


	14. Chapter 14

There’s a place nestled just beyond Golden Hills, cresting the fine arch of the downtown borders called Crane. No one knows why it’s called Crane, and those who ask never find themselves seated within. It’s microscopic, gently put—some twenty tables altogether—and positively _raking_ in the profits. One of the fine establishments that strictly adheres to the guidelines of the Gold Code—a service existing solely for the use of Lannisports many high profile individuals. Jon had never in his life cared to use a Gold Code establishment—his earliest days in the spotlight ere sheltered, and once he reached legal adulthood, they were _wild_.

But as Sansa entered the picture, he began to keenly appreciate the Gold Code services. He keenly appreciates their secrecy, their security. Paparazzi do not photograph you when you’ve gone Gold, fans do not approach you. Such people never get in. It’s made such places prime grounds for illicit business deals and hushed meetings between crooked politicians—except they’re not allowed in, either.

Places such as this gave Jon the safety and space he found solace in as he threw himself head first (heart first) into his budding romance with Sansa. He had been nervous in those early days, because he’s been around the block and after a while the girlfriends all look the same when they’re breaking up with you, or being dumped by you, or you’re both sitting around passing time waiting for one of you to be the brave one who calls it quits.

He’s been scared, truth be told, to think of what will happen now that the news is out. It was all he could think about the entire flight home. He thought of childhood in the North, of ice hockey with Robb and Theon after school, of rehearsing lines for a play in between Meereenese and Geometry, of staying late in the Stark’s basement at Winterfell, playing video games (and losing badly). He thought of sitting on the curb outside of Carousel’s on the rare warm summer night, digging into a too-sweet snowcone with Arya and Rickon. He thought of lots of things.

But mostly, he thought of Sansa and how difficult it’s about to be for her to do any of those things again. He can’t stop looking at her now as she takes her seat—the one nearest the window—already arguing with Arya over what qualifies as comfort brunch. And this is nothing new—he’s always had a hard time _not_ looking at Sansa. Even before he knew he loved her, he stared at her. But there is a desperation he feels on a visceral level now, because just as keenly as he recalls the days of ice hockey with Robb and Theon, and snowcones with Arya and Rickon, he recalls the relentless photographers and journalists with recorders pressed too close to his face whenever he stepped into view. He recalls the entertainment news anchors who suddenly pretended that they were legitimate journalists whose lives didn’t revolve around learning the gender of unborn celebrity progeny as they dissected his past performances and accolades, wondering which ones had real merit.

People are ruthless. He remembers this keenly.

But Sansa has never known this, because well bred Northeners never make the papers, and Starks have never so much as been _mentioned_ in a paper. Half of the prestige is in obscurity, as sure as the sunrise. The rules there are far stricter than they are down here—fame is for peasants.

He chuckles darkly to himself. Down here, he and his are legends. But up there, he has surely disgraced her. The girls stop their gentle bickering at the sound, turning to look at him.

“Your grandpa Rickard must be turning in his grave,” he says quietly.

“Good,” Arya replies after a minute. “He can use the exercise. Now what are we eating?”

“No waffles or pancakes for you,” Sansa says firmly. “You’ve had enough cookies to build an armada and enough coffee to float one.”

“Then what am I supposed to order, Mum?”

“You’re having a spinach omelet, and that’s the end of it.”

“Why _spinach_?”

“Because it’s good for you and you’re going to have some.”

Jon leans back in his seat as Arya launches into a well-rehearsed, remarkably impressive diatribe about the perils of dark green vegetables, and Sansa—well anticipating the event—rests her chin on her open palm and pretends to be _very_ interested.

This might be the good life—he is sure. Because he’s never had it this good with anyone before, and he’s never felt so happy with anyone as he does with this pretty red thing beside him—and he’s never been more terrified of those vultures with microphones and cameras. He doesn’t know which angle they’ll try to come from first, so he steels himself to protect them all.

He’ll guard his blooming garden, because she’s had too many flowers plucked from the roots already. She has killed too many parts of herself to survive. He will not let anyone kill what is left.

He reaches across the table and takes her other hand, and her fingers intertwine with his, and her hands are soft as clouds. He looks at her—because he fucking _loves_ looking at her—her hair bright in the yellow light beneath the beret she’s thrown on, her skin softer than her favorite cashmere sweater, the flawless pear diamond glittering on her finger. She’s as dazzling as they come, perfect and smiling and his—the first thing he’s ever had that has been only his, not to share with anyone.

“Are you going to answer that?” Sansa asks, tapping him gently, and he reaches into his pocket to clutch his buzzing phone.

It’s an unknown number, and he doesn’t care to wonder which journalist from which publication has gotten a hold of which person who knows which person who happens to have Jon Snow’s private cell. He rejects the call, then he switches his phone off entirely and drops it back into his pocket. Sansa’s eyes clock this, but she says nothing as she squeezes his hand gently.

“When are you headed back North?” Jon asks Arya.

“I meant to go back sometime this week,” Arya says. “But now you’re back—how long will you be staying?”

“Probably until someone calls threatening to fire me,” Jon admits.

“You shouldn’t delay work to be here,” Sansa says.

“I can miss a few days,” he shakes it off. “I don’t like you being alone with this.”

“If it’s any comfort, I’ve become a proper homebody these last few years,” she says. “And Melisandre sent me a whole map of places like this. Gold Code. I can stay under on my own until you wrap up.”

He knows. He _knows_. But he’s scared. Taking her with him to Sothoryos is tempting as all hell—five heavenly weeks in an eco-modern mini mansion with the steaming rainforest all around them, returning from a day of filming to find her there waiting for him. He could fool himself for a few moments, pretend that he’s an accountant or an actuary or someone who works a regular nine to five job and then comes home to the wife, because an accountant or an actuary can do that, but not an actor. Not as often as he’d like. But taking her to Sothoryos means taking her into a whole different nesting ground, because the only thing he’s going to really be seeing in Sothoryos on a regular basis is the film set, and come one—does he really want her around more cameras? Even if she played up her ‘homebody’ angle, he can’t ask her to consider staying holed up in a mansion on another continent for _five weeks_ while pictures circulate all over the internet.

“I’ll stay as long as I can,” he says.

She knows he has more to say, he can see it in the soft way she smiles at him—gods, he _loves_ that smile—and they turn their attention to the waiter who has just approached them.

He’s watching her closely now. Searchingly. He’s waiting for the twitch of her fingers, or the slight downturn of her lips, or the faint little line she gets when she’s thinking too hard. He’s waiting, he realizes, for the moment she really freaks out. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know how to do this. He only knows that he’s never done it before. But it’s still too soon for her to have a right and proper panic, and things are still calm right now. He wishes they could stay like this forever.

What ought to be a brunch drags on into a lunch as Arya soundly ignores Sansa’s explicit alcohol ban, choosing to lift the Prohibition herself when she orders half the sangrias and mimosas on the menu, and then—once she’s well buzzed—chow down some more to soak up the alcohol. They end up having to half carry her onto the discreet side exit offered to Gold Code guests, where their car is waiting. Half way back home, they realize that Arya is not, in fact, drunk, and proceed to kick her onto the driveway of 6402 Blue Jay Boulevard as they head up into the house to prepare for Sansa Stark’s first social event as an outed celebrity wife.


End file.
